The Makings of a Scoundrel
by DuckofIndeed
Summary: Why was it so often the case that those with power were so quick to throw it away?
1. Chapter 1: An Uncommonly Common Boy

First off, this story contains spoilers relating to Swaine's backstory, so be warned. Anyway, Swaine is my favorite character from Ni no Kuni (after the Lord High Lord of the Fairies, of course), and I was interested in his past and how he went from a prince to a thief. And so this story is meant to better explore not only his childhood, including his relationship with Marcassin and his father, but what happened between his decision to leave home and the events in the game. I'm also using this as practice for fancying up my writing skills. I hope you enjoy!

The characters, locations, etc. mentioned in this story are property of Level-5, not me.

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 **The Makings of a Scoundrel**

 **Chapter 1: An Uncommonly Common Boy**

Countless bodies passed through the bronze streets of Hamelin, jostling without thought through the crowd as if their very position in society depended on it as much as a bit of force was necessary to make progress to the market or the factories or anywhere else. It was for this reason that no one paid any mind to a certain ragged boy in their midst, for to distinguish him from the throng would have required a second perusal, and no one had time for the first.

This common, everyday street urchin, if someone had actually found the time to pause in their busy schedules to _look_ at him, was of a raggedness that seemed strangely intentional, in a crooked cap and medium-length coat stained with a suspiciously neat smudge of soot just above the hem. Just the simple fact that both his shoes were still securely attached to their respective soles was a baffling detail even your run-of-the-mill scamp would find curious if they were not more focused on things far more vital, namely earning the odd guilder or two that would make their families' lives just the smallest ounce easier.

If they had stopped and spared him the luxury poor folks worked to the bone for, but inevitably received not even the leftover crumbs of in return, perhaps most perplexing of all to see in such an uncommonly common boy, whose hair looked as if it had been washed and combed within the last 24 hours, was that _he_ was the only one who was not in a hurry.

The ambling young beggar with a round face devoid of anything that could possibly be mistaken for want, strolled through the city of gears and steam with a casual air anyone else in his position would know was a privilege rarely afforded them, both hands in his coat pockets as much for comfort as in a simple, but effective, defense against pickpockets. It gave him minimal trouble to meander through the eternally fluctuating pathways created by a churning sea of bodies, for he had, as far as could be guessed, nowhere to be and no deadline to be there.

His goal for the day had already been fulfilled, and he fingered the slight weight in his pocket created by the object he had acquired in Hamelin's black market, just one of many pieces he had sought out for a very special project he was building. While few his age knew where that shadowy establishment hid and even fewer could find it a second time once its location inevitably changed again, when he made up his mind to do something, he always followed through on it.

As a necessity to keep this promise he had made to himself, he had come to know the streets and alleys of the world's most technologically advanced city as well as any could. Even as it grew and changed, as much in its physical layout as in its scientific breakthroughs, this city felt very much sometimes as if it was _his_ city, though he believed it would be far more accurate to describe it, rather, as a vast machine of gears and pipes and pistons, a machine made of steel as well as people, whose inner workings he had studied and come to know intimately. For he was quite certain in the wee hours of the night when there was nothing to occupy one's time but dreams, waking or not, that he felt like an ache in a rotting tooth that this city comprised his entire world and would until his dying breath. And if one was stuck with something, one might as well become the master of it.

The boy slipped like a shadow into the nearest alley, a path too narrow and out of the way to be of any use to those with tight schedules to keep and guilders to be made and spent. And yet, despite its physical width, it might have been a highway in the space it offered in comparison. The noise was the second thing to drop off, albeit far more gradually, as every turn the alley made reduced the chattering and the organic buzz of human voices, until it was but a scarcely noticeable drone that had no choice but to give way to the squeak of turning wheels and the hiss of escaping steam, the heart and lungs of a monstrous mechanical beast whose very gut they resided in.

His pace quickened just enough to shorten his journey without allowing the occasional passerby the opportunity to mistake him for someone short on time until he was stopped by a high wall. With no more delay wasted than a single glance about him, the most purposeful sign he had exhibited during his entire day's stroll, he entered a back door only he knew, an act which would have warranted serious reconsideration had he indeed been what he was trying very hard to appear to be.

His cap was the first to go, followed by the coat, which was spared half a mind more than the cap as it was folded and tucked under one arm with absent care for the contents of its right pocket, the beginnings of a transformation the folks milling about outside might have actually noticed had it taken place in their midst. The unnaturally tidy street urchin smoothed the far too recently washed brown hair his cap had previously obscured and straightened a short coat quite unlike the first, for it lacked any sign of wear, purposeful or not, and was bordered in gilded thread. Simple, but elegant, chandeliers peered down in lofty approval from high ceilings, while his own regal reflection mimicked every sauntering step of that haughty march from the polished floor that made him look every inch his height and more. And it could hardly be certain if it was the doing of his surroundings that accounted for so complete a change in his appearance or, as seemed more likely the case, the other way around.

Prince Gascon paid the palace guards no mind, their solemn nods in his direction receiving no outward response in return as he passed them by, for his thoughts were still focused on the day's events and notions of what future days might hold behind doors whose locks not even the most skilled of thieves could pick. He coughed as he took notice of a rawness in his throat he had learned from experience was a consequence of the blanket of choking smog that always slithered beneath Hamelin's high canopy. The discomfort always passed with enough time spent indoors (ice cream always helped to speed up the process), but today it was more pronounced than it had been since his outings to the streets beyond had begun just a couple years prior. Curiosity was a young boy's greatest companion, and greatest danger, and not even nobility was exempt from it.

He had hardly arrived back in his bedchambers and hidden away his newest find in a box he kept hidden beneath the wardrobe with the rest of what had still yet to progress beyond collected scrap when one side of the double doors flung open behind him and struck the wall with a shuddering bang.

The prince spun to meet the intruder, and his words left his throat before the action had yet been completed. "Can't you knock?" he asked, but his fists unclenched as his younger brother stumbled to a halt in the middle of the room as if reeling from some unseen blow.

Prince Marcassin's bottom lip quivered, and he hiccupped from the sobs that had already reddened his cheeks. He wiped his eyes with one sleeve.

"G-Gascon," the small child said and drew in a loud sniff. "Gascon, i-it's mu-mummy—" he attempted to say, but the way his shoulders shook said more than words ever could.

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It occurred to Gascon with bitter revelation that death only brought rain in books. Not in real life.

In real life, you couldn't just turn back the pages.

The funeral procession was hardly different from any other appearance the Hamelin royal family made to the public, but wherever it strayed in even the smallest detail brought with it a thickness in the air the elder prince wondered if anyone else could feel. It constricted him, suffocated him without causing any change in breathing. The normally raucous crowd stood like a sea of black on either side of the street like stagnant waters making way for the passage of a boat, and it was a wonder they, too, still breathed amidst the stillness. He swallowed, to hold back a scream that threatened to pierce the silence, but one glance up at their father, whose expression was no less severe than usual, was enough to extinguish any such urge he might have.

Why did his heart feel like glass, as if every beat threatened to make it shatter? Never before had all those faces made him squirm inside, never before had those watchful eyes compelled him so strongly to run, and in that moment, he thought he knew what it might feel like to be a statue people stared up at, which could flee their scrutiny no more than he could beg their father to let him hide until this whole day, and the weeks and months that followed, had passed.

And yet, fragile as it felt, his heart pounded within his chest, as his mind dwelled on anything but the ivory box rimmed with pale lilies their focus was supposed to be upon. It was not allowed, unheard of, for the future emperor of Hamelin to show weakness. It was against the _rules_ to cry. What else could be expected from one whom the very buildings themselves parted and soldiers laid down their lives to protect? One day, the fate of the entire empire would rest on his shoulders. How could wars be won and peace be maintained if the emperor lost his nerve?

Marcassin grabbed his hand in one of his own, and Gascon drew in a deep breath that hitched within his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and, in a fleeing sense of self-restraint, allowed a few hot tears to slip free.

He couldn't live up to it.

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I'm rather proud of this chapter. It was a lot of fun trying to be fancier in my writing. I should probably mention, though, that the chapters in this story are going to be a bit disjointed, more like a collection of events rather than a typical story. More will be coming, hopefully, in the near future.

Please review, dear readers!


	2. Chapter 2: The Hamelin Way

Like I said in my previous chapter's author's notes, this story is going to be kind of a collection of scenes (in chronological order, but still), so this chapter takes place some time after the first one. Anyway, you'll see what it is soon enough. Enjoy!

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 **Chapter 2: The Hamelin Way**

Gascon stood transfixed by two voices he knew all too well, that could have been too easily lost beneath the drumbeat of his own heart had he not channeled all his focus into straining his ears for every syllable, every pause, every breath that was taken, had the last been possible to detect at this distance. The only other thing he was paying any attention to was pressing his back against the cold wall behind him in such a statuesque stillness, he would have greatly benefited from sprouting roots to assist in holding him steady.

Long had certain questions plagued his mind, the deceptively simple "what if" that had served to torment mankind since before even the Nazcaan civilization was but a distant future. As long as they _remained_ in his mind, however, they could do him no harm. As long as they never broke free, to find a voice to utter them and make them real, he had nothing to fear.

"But, Your Majesty, as I'm sure you're well aware…" came the meeker of the two voices through the crack in the great double doors the prince had found himself frozen beside.

" _If_ I'm already aware, as you have just admitted, then I'd think there's no need to say it, now is there?"

Gascon winced at the deep voice whose very tone he had come to dread, that could inspire feelings of inadequacy in even a bumblebee over how well it flew. If anyone had left the doors ajar on purpose, if the gap through which their words could flow was intentional and a jury was debating over the culprit, he would be their man.

There was a pause, which he knew from experience was not for lack of something to say, and which he was certain must be accompanied by fidgeting, and then the first voice made a second attempt. "My lord, the heir to the throne _must_ also be the next Great Sage. It has been this way since, well, generations, many, many generations. If he'd only _apply_ himself, I'm sure I could-he's just a boy, but he could learn if you just. Give. Me. More. Time."

A soft chuckle just managed to creep forth from the room. "Are you pleading for his case or your own?" Several slow and heavy footsteps followed that forbade interruption. "As you are no doubt aware, my eldest son has no magical potential to speak of. You have expressed as much yourself. Unless this was untrue…."

There was no reply.

"He will not, will never, become a Great Sage," the deeper voice continued, "Nothing can convince me otherwise."

"He is only eleven, Your Majesty. We cannot…can-can his fate really be determined at so young-" the voice broke off, and even Gascon drew back in anticipation of the reply.

"I had full control of my magical abilities by his age. My decision is final."

A new silence fell upon the three, though had the speakers within uttered another sound, there was little chance Gascon would have caught it. He sucked in a deep breath as if it was his very last before being enveloped in rising floodwaters, only to clamp his jaw shut, lest any further noise escape him. His heart hammered within his chest with a fervor that put its earlier pace to shame, and he managed to reign in racing thoughts just in time to realize the discussion had not yet come to an end.

"It was…" a soft voice began, the words trembling, "it's been an honor and a pleasure to serve your household, Your Majesty. If you are ever in need of my services again—"

"I will contact you, yes. You have served our family well. Rest assured your dismissal is not for lack of effort."

No answer could be heard in return, and a small part of him wondered if perhaps he had gotten it all wrong. Perhaps he had stumbled upon a conversation between two entirely different people, who had come to discuss _anything_ else.

The prince stiffened when the sound of soft-soled boots shuffling across the hard floor met his ears, already so close, escape seemed an impossibility. He pressed his back further into the wall and willed the shadows to obscure him as a figure emerged through the doorway, a man whose thin face was trying very hard to convey relative youth but was betrayed by a single grey hair at his right temple. Even magic couldn't defend against aging forever.

The man's pale eyes locked onto the boy's dark ones, the former's lips quivering as they parted to express some sign of his surprise. The prince shook his head, and the other closed his mouth without a sound being made.

"Gascon…"

Their heads swiveled as one, as if their eyes had been pulled back to the room beyond by an invisible string. The fact that one side of the double doors was now open fully served little to make it more inviting.

"You've waited out there long enough. Now come in."

Gascon remained frozen to the spot, and when his eyes dared leave the door to venture back to the man standing beside him, all he received was an apologetic smile in return. His gaze fell away, and with no further delay than a deep breath to calm his nerves, he turned to obey the summons.

His father's audience room was in the usual style of the palace of Hamelin, though it always made the prince feel cold, colder than all the massive rooms of metal and tile that felt far too large for their own good. And that said nothing of when his father was in it.

The emperor of Hamelin needed no introduction, for none could have mistaken him for anyone less. Unlike his eldest son, wearing the rags of poverty would have fooled no one, for he stood with a regal bearing that would make a lion look like an oversized tomcat in comparison. Gascon winced as he was met with hard eyes that had never once softened in all his recollections of his father.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, or you might hear things you won't like."

The prince hooked the index fingers of both hands behind his back and ran his tongue over his lips, though it brought no relief when both were dry. "I-I wasn't," he told the far corner of the room, but said no more once he decided further defense was futile.

"And yet, somehow you heard it all, haven't you? I can see it in your face. You know as well as I that you will never be able to wield magic. Further waiting around was pointless."

"I tried. You think I didn't, but I—"

"Am I not correct?"

Gascon returned his arms to his sides when his father tucked his own hands behind his back, for it was clear who would win in a competition of similar stances. "I could have, maybe, if you'd cared enough to give me a proper chance—"

"Can you so much as light a candle without the aid of a match? Could you, if even your very life depended on it, heal a wound?" His father's voice boomed, and in case volume alone didn't do the trick, his tone, too, was enough to still the prince's tongue and cause clenched fists to go slack. "Even if you had cared," he paused, "to spend as much time studying as you do staring dreamy-eyed out windows, you will never possess so much as a spark of magic. Denying it won't do you any good. Now is this the truth or isn't it?"

The boy swallowed at the lump that had formed in his throat, and he was compelled to provide an answer when his father's eyebrows leapt upon his forehead. The prince inclined his head in a sullen nod.

"When I ask you a question, I expect a spoken answer. Now speak!"

Gascon's lips worked to force out a response, but only empty air came forth, until, with a choke, he said, "Y-yes, but…" he tried licking his lips again, with no more success than the first time, "but did you…did you _really_ have to say all that to my teacher?"

The emperor chuckled, though if it had contained any hint of humor, the boy couldn't find it. "He certainly would have known once I had dismissed him, would he not? As if he wasn't already aware of the matter. I won't mince words for your own comfort, Gascon."

As if afflicted by some sudden exhaustion, his father bowed his head, a sigh escaping him as he rubbed his forehead with one hand. The prince tensed as he awaited the man's next words, only to stare in befuddlement when his father removed the sword he always kept at his belt and held it in both hands before him. Its gilded scabbard was elaborately decorated, a visible sign of the man's power that ensured his position as one of the four Great Sages and Emperor of Hamelin would never be forgotten.

"My son," the emperor said, his voice mild, but no less commanding, "I have long meant to pass this on to you one day, when you were grown. And yet," his hard eyes closed for the briefest of seconds, "I find it all the more vital I entrust it to you now. If you can't protect yourself with magic, at least you will have this."

Born of pure reflex and the unspoken knowledge that this was no time to disobey, Gascon took the blade offered him without looking at it. His eyes remained instead on the face of his father, parted lips unable to close, for there were countless questions they yearned to ask, but he picked just one to voice.

"What happens…if Marcassin learns to use magic?"

The emperor laughed and slapped a large hand down on his son's shoulder. "I should think you already know the answer to that question by now. If your brother does indeed show promise as a Great Sage, you would need to find yourself a new role to play within the empire. Everyone must find a way to be useful. That is the Hamelin way, after all."

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Goodness, the second half of this chapter really required some hardcore editing. I'm much happier with it now, though. I just have trouble writing for Gascon's father. His time in the game isn't that long, so there isn't much time to study his dialogue and the like. Nevertheless, I still enjoyed writing the dialogue between Gascon and him. Sometimes I made him too harsh and sometimes not harsh enough, but I think the editing fixed all that. Anyway, please review, my dears!


	3. Chapter 3: Unintended Magic

Good day, dear readers. My newest chapter took a little while to finish, but compared to how quickly I usually update, I don't think this was too bad. This is one scene I pondered over for a while and one that is vital to the story. I hope you enjoy.

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 **Chapter 3: Unintended Magic**

Strangely enough, it seemed that nightmares were the only thing that could motivate Marcassin to brave the corridors after the gaslights had been put out, the only manner in which the residents of the palace could distinguish between night and day when the city outside had no sky to speak of. For an untold number of consecutive nights, as Gascon had given up counting sometime after the first two weeks, the elder prince was woken by a frantic pounding on his bedroom door. The time range in which this happened was not important, only that it happened.

With what he hoped was a thoroughly put-upon groan, even if there was no one about to hear it, Gascon rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into his pillow. He was still of the relaxed boneless quality of one yet to have fully left the world of dreams, and in such a half-asleep state, he reasoned that lack of bones would be a poor time to leave the comfort of a warm bed and goose down pillows. Right now, in fact, he felt more akin to a slug than a boy anyway, and hard floors just didn't interest him at the moment.

A sigh attempted to escape him when the pounding at his door subsided, but it went nowhere when the pillow hindered its progress. Remembering that even slugs needed oxygen, or so he assumed, Gascon squirmed about in the tangle of sheets he had become ensnared in. Without bothering to open his eyes, he tugged at the offending corner of the blankets until the leg that had become confined was free, only to go still again once the discomfort had been corrected.

Sleep was hardly given a chance to reclaim him, however, for a new sound began out in the hallway, a wail with the hint of a name hidden inside it. Deciding he was only prolonging the inevitable, Gascon pressed the palm of one hand against the mattress to hoist himself out of bed, and he shivered in his pajamas as the cold air took this opportunity to nip at him.

By the time he opened the door to stare down at the culprit, his younger brother was still breathing heavily, his face red with tears.

Gascon rubbed his forehead, an act that only succeeded in flattening his hair down over one eye. "Another one?"

Marcassin continued to sniff, and he moved his head up and down in several exaggerated nods. "Uh-hmm."

"What was it _this_ time?"

The young child began to whimper more than ever, and he choked on his next words nearly to incomprehension. "I-it wa-as just s-scary!"

"Well, at least stop crying. It's over now. And you can't keep waking me up every night, you know. Everyone gets bad dreams, but that's no excuse to run screaming through the hallways."

Marcassin wiped the tears from his right eye with his sleeve as he continued in jerky syllables, "How e-else c-can I ma-make you wake up?"

"Well, do you want to tell me about it?" Gascon asked as he brushed his hair out of his face.

"I d-don't know."

"Then, what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know." The child sniffed, but made no sign he had anything further to say.

Gascon huffed. "Look, if you're not going to tell me anything, you may as well go back to bed. I'm certainly not going to spend the rest of the night staring at you. If it makes you feel any better, I can walk you back to your room. Okay?"

Marcassin's red-rimmed eyes widened. "But, the monsters might have snuck back in."

"Then, I'll just have to scare them away again, won't I?"

Receiving no reply besides a wordless stare, Gascon stepped around the child with a roll of his eyes. Without once looking back, he proceeded to stride down the dark corridor and was rewarded with the pattering of bare feet as his brother darted after him. Neither said a word as they walked down the empty hallway even the guards rarely patrolled, though Gascon wondered if it would bring his brother any comfort if they did. The clatter of metal boots, he had to admit, was a bit disconcerting to hear in the middle of the night when one was not expecting it. What he was doing roaming the palace at such an hour was another story and one he was not sharing.

By the time they reached the door to Marcassin's chambers, the child's round cheeks retained only a fading blush from his earlier display. Pausing before the double doors, the two brothers exchanged silent nods. Gascon entered the room first, while his brother continued to linger in the doorway, where he could maintain a safe distance with his bed in full view to confirm his elder brother performed the ritual correctly.

The official monster-tamer took up a nearby lantern, still lit thanks to the child's insistence that he couldn't sleep otherwise and began to peer under the bed from all angles. He was forced to start over when he was reminded that the monsters would only be frightened off if he started from the wall and went counterclockwise. (It confused them, Gascon had said, though he hadn't realized this would inspire a suspicion of clocks until he had convinced the child that the two were in no way related.)

Once he was certain nothing unsavory lurked underneath Marcassin's bed, or in the wardrobe, behind the curtains, or beneath the pillows, he beckoned for his brother to join him with a wave of his arm.

"I didn't find anything," Gascon said, his head held high with the certainty of these words. "You have nothing to worry about."

The child shuffled into the room and cast an uneasy eye at the nearest dark corner. "What if they come in while I'm sleeping?"

"They can't. Most monsters don't even have thumbs, so they aren't able to open doors and windows."

"What about the ones that _do_ have—"

"Just get in bed."

Marcassin did as he was told, though he hardly delved any deeper beneath the blankets than his stomach until a stern glance from Gascon sent him sliding under the rest of the way. With a firm nod of approval, the elder brother made for the hallway, only to pause in the doorway.

"Try to get some sleep, okay?" he said over his shoulder.

The child made a slow nod. "'K-kay… Good…good night, Gascon."

"Night."

Gascon closed the door behind him and began the journey back to his own room. The long corridor seemed even colder than the room he had just left, and it was only the lights from the city beyond, what little was able to make it through the high windows, at least, that were available to provide sparse illumination, but certainly not enough to breach the shadows that gathered overhead and obscured the ceiling as if there was none at all.

Sometimes he would have preferred it that way, for he had heard that outside the city, the sky filled with stars whenever night fell. He had heard it was like staring up at a million glittering gems, that you could never truly feel alone in this world, no matter how big it was, because you could always see those stars at night gazing right back down at you. That's what he had heard, but he couldn't possibly know if it was true. There were no stars in Hamelin.

He would sleep beneath the stars someday, even if only once.

Gascon's reverie was interrupted when he felt something heavy pounce on his back, and he wobbled on his feet in his efforts to steady himself under a very real burden that had not been there mere moments ago.

"Get _off_ me!"

"Give me a piggyback ride, Gascon," a familiar voice said over his right shoulder. " _Please_? Just like you used to!"

The elder prince nearly choked thanks to the arms wrapped around his neck. "You're getting too heavy! Seriously, let go!" As if to prove his point, his whole stance began to sink until his knees met the floor. The weight disappeared, and Marcassin arrived into view a moment later.

"Sorry, Gascon."

"You were supposed to _stay_ in bed this time," Gascon said, though he made no effort to stand, lest he be tackled again. "Don't tell me you already had another bad dream."

The child shook his head. "No. I can't sleep at _all_. Can I stay in your room for a while?"

Gascon stared up in silence at his younger brother, but rather than ask how several minutes was enough time to confirm that one would be unable to fall asleep, he merely rose to his feet with a shake of the head and continued down the corridor with a mumbled request to follow. He didn't need to look over to know that his brother had fallen in line beside him, and once they arrived inside the room in question, Marcassin took no delay in climbing onto the bed, where his short legs proceeded to dangle, with no hope of reaching the floor. For a good many years, at least.

Gascon, on the other hand, found his own seat in the form of a wooden chair with red cushions that had been left in the corner, the very one his mother had used when she had tended to him all throughout a bad case of the flu when he was about Marcassin's age. Any who hadn't already known would have had trouble believing in that moment that she was the empress of Hamelin. How it had managed to remain here for so long, he wasn't certain, but seeing as it had already occupied that spot for this many years, he saw no reason to move it now. It clomped in an awkward fashion as he attempted to drag it across the floor, and he gave up when he had succeeded in bringing it as close to the bed as he deemed necessary.

The younger prince continued to watch the elder in an expectant stillness as he absently went about curling and uncurling the toes of one foot. Gascon cleared his throat, but rather than speak, he directed his focus instead on anchoring his feet upon the floor to aid in lifting himself out of the slouch he had taken up just as soon as he had sat down.

"So…" he began, "are you going to tell me what your dream was about or not?"

Marcassin's hands grasped each other in his lap, and he shook his head.

Gascon gnawed on his lower lip and tried again. "Well, what…what do you think's bothering you _this_ time? You haven't had this many nightmares since-" his words faltered, "since mother."

The child stared at the floor in deep consideration, his eyebrows knitted with the effort he put into it. When his answer arrived, he looked back up. "I'm…I'm probably just scared of the dark."

The elder prince shook his head, both hands grasping the edge of his seat. "No, that's not it. You should be getting _less_ afraid of the dark by now, not more."

"I've _always_ been afraid of it, though."

"But, you don't always have nightmares, now do you?"

Marcassin kicked his feet and shrugged. "Just little ones."

Gascon planted his forehead in both hands with a groan. "Then, what could it possibly be? I can't help you if you don't tell me what your dream was about."

By now, his younger brother had taken to wriggling the toes of both feet as he proceeded to stare down at them with a suspicious fascination.

"'Marcassin, _Marcassin_ , you're not even listening!" Gascon said, and though the child's head gave a jerk at the mention of his name, it seemed the focus on his feet only doubled.

The elder prince rose from his seat to join his brother on the edge of the bed. He couldn't say he would receive any better results over here, but if he wasn't allowed to get any rest tonight, at least this was the closest he could come to it.

Marcassin looked over. "Are there any games we can play?"

Gascon yawned and rubbed his eyes. "I don't feel like playing any games right now."

The child straightened as a smile sprouted without warning upon his face. "I know, maybe you could teach me chess. Father tried to, but I didn't understand it. I bet you'd be—"

With a groan, Gascon fell back onto the bed and laid there with his arms sprawled wherever they had ended up. "Chess is a stupid game." There were simply too many rules, a fact that very well might account for his inability to have ever won.

Marcassin's face fell, and he returned to staring at his feet. "Gascon…"

"What?"

"What was…mummy like?"

Gascon stiffened. "What's that have to do with anything?"

"N-nothing, I…I was just wondering…"

The elder prince stared, unblinking, at the canopy above them, its shape uncertain in the gloom, like a dark shadow looming overhead. It had always made him feel rather claustrophobic, even if one of the maids was always insisting that it was the only kind of bed suited for royalty. He really ought to consider trading with her one of these days. "Don't worry, I'm sure you were Mother's favorite, too. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

A heavy silence fell over the pair, a stifling sort of quiet that gave no peace, but added to the cold that enveloped the room, only to grow colder still when it was broken. The interruption started off soft, nearly inaudible, and he had to wonder if it was all just his imagination, until Marcassin burst into sobs that eclipsed his earlier tears.

Gascon shot upright as the child's small body shook, with no signs of stopping. "Hey, M-Marcassin," he began, his mouth working to form the proper words around a tongue that had suddenly gone numb, "I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that!"

Marcassin choked and hiccupped, and it was impossible to say at first if the noises he made were attempts at speech or gasps until some meaning managed to force its way through. "Y-you d…d-don't like m-e, do-do you, Gascon?"

"That's…that's not it at all! I like you just fine! You're my brother. Just please stop crying, okay?"

The child lifted a hand to his nose, but made no effort to rub at his face. "Then, y-you're _go-ing_ to h…hate me, I kn-know it! You-you'll be m-mad at me!"

Gascon opened his mouth, but found he had no words to say until he was provided with some elaboration that would shed further meaning upon his brother's statements. He received none.

"Wh…what are you talking about?"

Marcassin sucked air into his heaving chest and lifted a single, shaky hand overhead with a curious amount of gravity. The seeming mystery of the gesture compelled Gascon to stare, unblinking, at it, as if he expected it to divulge the answers. With only a moment's more hesitation, the child gave his arm an unsteady wave, and that was all it took.

He jerked back as the lantern on his night table burst ablaze, seemingly of its own accord. His eyes pressed closed as if they wished to retreat from the baffling sight, but when he opened them again, a bright orange flame continued to dance within the confines of the lantern where before there had been none. Its glow pushed back the darkness and reflected off the table's polished surface, just as real as if it had been created by more conventional means.

When he turned back to his brother, the child's tears had ceased, but the sheen they left as they dried still graced his cheeks. Marcassin's mouth remained open just partly, his eyes round and expectant, and in his pupils, the flame had split in two, one for each, and Gascon knew this could not be some trick from lack of sleep. A wave of cold washed over him, as if ice had settled within his veins, constricting his chest and numbing his very mind with its chill.

"You…can use magic," he said, his words barely audible. He licked his lips, expecting something to happen in the pause that followed, something, anything, befitting such a revelation. But the room remained just as silent, just as cold. "How long…" he continued, "how long have you known?"

A shuddering breath attempted to break free, but Marcassin just managed to pull it back before it could pass his lips. His words, too, were a whisper. "Do you hate me?"

"No, I-why…why would you think that?"

"B-because…" the child drew in a sniff, "because I'm not supposed to." He rubbed his nose. "I'm not supposed to use magic. You are. I…I d-didn't mean to."

"Marcassin, we…" Gascon swallowed. He always knew this day would come. "We have to tell Father."

"No, no, you can't-" Marcassin attempted to jump to his feet, but was held in place when his brother grabbed him by the arms. "No, Gascon-" he tried to struggle, but the grip upon him remained firm.

"We _have_ to. This is important, and…" He bowed his head, his voice dropping, as well. "I-I know it's scary. I've spent my whole life worrying about…how I could never manage ruling an empire. But, the more time you have to prepare, the better. Right?"

When he looked up again, Marcassin's eyes were wider than he had ever seen them, and they bored into his own until it took all of his willpower not to look away. " _Right_?" he repeated and gave his brother a gentle shake. "Quit staring at me. I'm almost worried you've forgotten how to talk."

The child's nod was unconvincing, but at least it was an answer. "But, Gascon," Marcassin's voice shook, "wh-what happens to _you_?"

Gascon released him. "Don't you worry about me. If you're afraid to tell Father, I'll…I'll help you train. I think I've learned some useful things from my old magic teacher, and once you're ready, then we'll talk to him together. Okay? Everything will be fine, I promise." He forced his mouth into a smile. "I keep my promises, don't I?"

One corner of Marcassin's lips lifted in half a grin of his own, and he threw his arms around his brother's neck in a sudden embrace. While the eldest was slow to respond, at first, he eventually did so thanks to a practice in such things all older siblings were forced to endure.

"It'll just be our little secret," Gascon said, and he felt his brother nod in his chest, paired with a muffled "mm-hmm" in the affirmative.

"Gascon," Marcassin turned his head to the side to better aid in proper speaking, "who comforts you when _you_ get bad dreams?"

Gascon pushed his brother from him by the arms and considered him with the most serious expression he could muster. "Well, it would be impossible for me to answer that question because I don't get bad dreams."

"Never?" his brother asked, and Gascon shook his head as the traces of a smirk crept across his lips.

"Never," he repeated. "Now, are you finally ready to leave me alone and go to bed or do I need to carry you out of here kicking and screaming?"

Marcassin nodded in all earnest, and he grabbed Gascon by the hand for the return to his room and a bedtime long put off. It was lost to him, however, that his brother's smirk had since vanished from his face and his grip was lacking the strength a big brother should rightly have. For Gascon's mind had acquired a few too many things to ponder over during the course of their talks. Dreams were one thing, the good and the bad.

The real question was, who was there to comfort him during his waking hours?

* * *

Piggyback ride. Pun not intended. Anyway, I always thought it would be a scary moment in Gascon's life when he realizes that his future is no longer certain, even if the possibility of being the next emperor isn't the most soothing thought one could have. And I really enjoyed writing these two interacting. I see Gascon as a grumpy, but caring older brother. Kind of harmlessly crabby.

Please review, dear readers.


	4. Chapter 4: The Two Sides of Hamelin

There will be a bit more action in this chapter. And I so enjoy writing Gascon and Marcassin's relationship. It's nice when siblings get along.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: The Two Sides of Hamelin**

Their training began five months ago with inanimate objects. Lighting candles had, naturally, led to entire chandeliers. Once he had mastered this ability, Marcassin's next test involved cooking various items Gascon had "liberated" from the palace kitchens, including a raw apple pie whose edges were rather singed once the child was through with it. It tasted just fine, otherwise.

After a time, however, it became rather difficult to explain the strange occurrences that resulted from their practice sessions, such as how they had become so wet when neither were anywhere near a bathtub or the courtyard fountain. It was just fortunate no one had heard the thunder.

And so, out of necessity, and to ensure Marcassin was provided the proper level of challenge, they had taken their training outside the city, where they could practice far from the prying eyes of soldiers and maids alike, the latter of which posed a double threat thanks to their habit of asking far more questions than was good for them.

Today, he had dubbed his younger brother ready to take on moving targets, namely the decrepit old automata that continued to roam the barren plains since ages past. He had learned quite quickly that he had spoken too soon, however, when he was lifted into the air by one leg, courtesy of a rather large robot that had managed, despite all its creaking, to sneak up on him. Fortunately, Marcassin had freed him with a well-aimed lightning bolt, though his head still ached where he had landed on it.

They had returned to Hamelin dusty and bruised, though Gascon had somehow managed to incur most of the machines' wrath, even when he was certain they had no way of knowing that he, and not his magic-wielding brother, was the true instigator of their mistreatment. At least their ragged appearance only served to enhance their disguises. Before leaving the palace, the elder prince had dressed in the usual simple clothing he always wore during his outings into the city, and he had insisted his younger brother wear the spare set he had managed to conjure up from his earlier days as a part-time commoner. They were still just a tad too large, but he believed this discrepancy would only add to that certain impoverished look he was going for.

When questioned on _why_ he preferred they wore such threadbare clothing when they had "perfectly good stuff" back home, Gascon had attempted to explain that this was the only way they could be treated like normal people by the folks that rushed about in endless hurry about them. He had even less luck making the child grasp exactly _how_ this treatment was any different from what it would be otherwise or why they weren't normal. (Such a rough appearance also made it easier to come and go through the black market, but Marcassin didn't need to know _that_ part of it.)

The pair hadn't wandered very far into the bustling streets of the city of steel and smoke when Marcassin grasped the end of his brother's coat sleeve. "Gascon, I was wondering—"

Gascon stopped in his tracks and turned to face him without delay. "Not so loud. People will hear you."

The child's mouth remained open to make way for words he had yet to utter, and then he tried again in hushed tones, "Gascon—"

"That's not how I meant it! You can talk in a normal voice. Just don't use our names, okay? Why do you think we're dressed like this," the elder prince indicated his less than princely attire with a downward sweep of his arms, "if you're just going to announce who we are to the whole city?"

Marcassin considered this. "I'm sorry, Ga-ah, I-I didn't think anyone was listening."

Gascon shook his head with an exasperated sigh to make it quite clear just how impossible his younger brother was being. "That's the problem, you don't _think_ anyone's eavesdropping, but would you really know if they _were_?"

The child turned to eye the crowd in suspicion. "No?"

The elder brother gave a sagely nod. "Exactly. I've been exploring this city since you were still a baby. You learn a thing or two about a thing or two."

When Marcassin turned back to him, his words flowed with renewed determination, "That's what I wanted to ask to you about. Could you show me around the city? I bet you know all about it."

Gascon brought a hand to his chin. "That _is_ true," he said with a growing smirk. "All right," he continued with a nod, as if just now reaching a decision he had put a great deal of thought into. "I'll give you a tour. I'll show you places in Hamelin you never even dreamed existed."

Marcassin nearly leapt into the air at this news. "Hooray! Thanks, Ga- I almost did it again…"

"You better be careful, or else everyone's going to feel awfully silly they haven't been heaping praises on us. That's why we have to lay low like this. Frankly, it would all be too much trouble otherwise."

The younger prince stared up at him. "They wouldn't really do that, would they?"

Gascon couldn't prevent the escape of a single snort of laughter. "No, but no more silly questions. Come on," he added with a sweep of one arm, and with that, he turned away and began to head down the nearest street, pausing once to spare a single glance backwards. "And stay close. I mean it."

* * *

Marcassin did stay close, too much so at times, as he was granted his own personal tour of the city even those of royal blood were scarcely afforded. They never strayed from the main thoroughfares with their Father, and even then, their view was from ten feet off the street, and they were surrounded by enough soldiers that it was impossible to feel like any more than a distant observer of what went on below. To say the Royal Family lived in Hamelin was a blatant lie. Their world was the palace, the city outside a wilderness they remained wholly separate from.

Gascon had seen things during his outings that had shocked him years ago, that continued to horrify him to this day. He had begun these excursions back when he was but eight and the call of what lay beyond the palace walls had grown too inviting to ignore. Still young and largely innocent, despite what his nursemaid would say, it had been no small feat for the young prince to wrap his head around the newly discovered reality that the city he gazed out at every day, which seemed to gleam back at him with untold splendor, was so much darker and stained once he got up close to it. His Father had never told him how great the differences between themselves and the people they ruled were. He had never given his eldest son any reason to question the pedestal on which they rested, had he known at the time one existed.

But he knew now. He now understood more fully a world that was not so simple, so black and white, as what his young mind had once believed. And yet, even now, after years spent marauding about those very streets he had once dreamed of visiting, he understood that he was still, and always would be, an observer and nothing more. He didn't have to like it, but the order of things was what it was, and he knew he must never touch it. It was dangerous for one who hailed from such a foreign existence to try and influence this one. Leave that to those who were born to it.

The ice cream cones they had purchased had already undergone a great deal of change since they had first come into their possessions. In fact, Gascon's was gone entirely, while his younger brother had managed somehow to prevent his ice cream from lapsing beyond a sad pile of mush that just barely rose above the rim of the nibbled cone. If Marcassin was using some kind of ice spell to prevent his treat from being reduced to an outright puddle, when it had no right being anything but by now, he had no way of knowing. His suspicions were only assuaged when he recalled his brother's ability to make lollipops and bubble gum last for hours on end, as well. Or perhaps, on second thought, it had always been magic.

By now, their stroll had taken them into one of Hamelin's many back alleys. Gascon found they allowed for far easier passage than the busy streets, even if they also possessed a unique disadvantage that made their use a risky endeavor.

Marcassin fumbled with his ice cream cone in a hurried effort to switch it to his other hand and only succeeded in dropping it as he clutched at his brother's sleeve with fingers sticky with sugar.

"Gascon, look there!" the child said under his breath, his words coming out in a pitch uncommon even for one of his size.

Such blatant instructions had never been necessary, however, for just before Marcassin had uttered them, Gascon's ears had picked up on a sound too hurried for the normally slow and forgotten alleys of Hamelin. It was only when people remembered these passages that one ran into trouble. His breath caught in his throat when his attention fell on a wiry man and a young woman struggling over a small handbag in the shadowy corner where the alley made a sharp turn.

He clutched his younger brother by the shoulders and attempted to push him back the way they had come, whether or not he was facing it. "Let's get out of here. Move!"

"No, we gotta do something! We gotta help her!" The child struggled in his brother's grip until, with a renewed burst of energy, he broke free and began a shambling run towards the pair.

Gascon attempted to pursue him, but his reflexes proved too slow, and he froze once it settled within him like a rock that he would be unable to stop him before the child could attract their notice. Marcassin jerked to a stop a short distance before them, as if he had lost the nerve to draw any closer, and his small frame stiffened when the man turned a cold gaze his way.

"Need somethin', kid?" the thief said in a low growl, his eyes squinting in a manner that suggested he was in dire need of eyeglasses. Based on the color of his teeth and the sheen of his dark hair, it seemed he was in even greater need of a number of other things, as well.

Marcassin drew in a shuddering breath. "L-leave her alone," he said and attempted to draw himself up to his full, if minor, height. It made no noticeable difference.

The thief made a slow turn in the boy's direction with a complete lack of anything that could be mistaken for urgency, while the woman withdrew into the corner as if she expected to hide within the shadows, her handbag clutched to her chest with such an intense grip, this whole matter could have surely been avoided, if only she had possessed it earlier. "Unless you got a bloody good reason," the man said in a slow drawl, "I suggest you scram!"

Marcassin lifted his chin high and tightened the fists at his sides. "You won't g-get away with this because…because I'm Prince Marcassin, and my Father will put you in jail!" Gascon would have slapped a hand to his forehead if the situation had been any less dire.

The man barked out a rough laugh, displaying several missing teeth, though such amusement failed to soften his expression. With her opening spotted, the woman bolted past him with only a fleeting glance spared their way. So much for gratitude, Gascon thought, and he rushed forward to join his brother.

A nervous laugh slipped free as he tugged Marcassin behind him, grateful he was met with no resistance this time. "E-excuse my kid brother. He daydreams too much for his own good. He's no more a prince than I'm the Dark Djinn." Gascon laughed again just as a twisted smirk began to snake its way over the man's thin lips.

The prince shuffled backwards as the thief advanced towards them in slow footfalls. "Get ready to run," he told his brother under bated breath, but before they had an opportunity to do just that, he was held fast when the child threw his arms about his torso in an embrace that prevented any such movement. A quick glance backwards was all the explanation he needed, and he gasped as he caught sight of another pair of men emerging from the shadows to block them in.

Marcassin whimpered into his stomach, and Gascon turned back to the leader, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes, if only to hide what he didn't wish to be seen. "What do you blighters want? I've already bloody told you—"

The thief shook a bony finger at him, his smile only growing in strength. "Such coarse language for a prince. Oh, my apologies," the man pressed a hand to his chest, his spidery fingers splayed, "I nearly forgot. I should call you both 'your 'ighness', shouldn't I?" He bowed low to a dissonant chorus of sniggers, and Marcassin squeezed his brother ever more tightly in his arms. Gascon hugged him back.

When the man rose again, he stood tall, drinking in the amusement of his comrades like a performer on a stage before he returned to studying the pair before him, his glassy eyes gleaming with a twinkle of an idea they hadn't possessed before. He rubbed the tips of a thumb and forefinger together as he continued, "Ya know, I wonder 'ow many guilders our mighty emperor would be willing to part with to see these two again."

"I wouldn' pay for 'em," came a throaty voice from behind the boys in question.

The leader shrugged. "Well, it can't 'urt to try." He chuckled. "Nothin' tried, nothin' gained, am I right?"

As if on some unspoken cue, Marcassin squealed as he was yanked from his brother's grip. "Gascon! Gascon, help!" the child said, and he kicked and squirmed as he was lifted bodily by two arms around his stomach.

Gascon lunged for him, but his path was barred as a man twice his size stepped in front of him. "Fight back, Marcassin!" he said. "You remember what I taught you! Fight back!"

The elder prince jerked backwards with a yelp as the man blocking his path grabbed him by the arm, and he just managed to worm his way out of his coat before the man could get a better grip on him. His freedom was short-lived, however, and it lasted just long enough for him to be bashed over the head a moment later with something hard from behind. The world spun, and Gascon fell bodily to the ground as an empty bottle landed with a clatter beside him. He groaned and tried to lift himself to his feet as his brother called his name, but such movement only caused the ground to lurch beneath his dazed senses all the more.

Time felt as if it had slowed to a crawl, and his thoughts and movements with it. All he could do was kneel there, with his hands upon the cold, rough ground for support, blinking as he willed the spots in his vision to depart from him. It was almost as if his very breath, his heart, his life, as well, had ceased to flow in those long moments. Until everything began to rush forward again with so little warning, it took his mind several moments to comprehend the fact that another noise had arrived to join the din, a metallic clattering that flooded his heart with overpowering relief before he even recalled where he had heard it before.

Commanding voices replaced his brother's cries and made short work of quenching the gruff protests that rose up in return as Gascon was hauled to his feet by two hands under his arms. He pressed his eyes shut once more, and when he opened them again, his blurred vision cleared just in time to catch a retreating figure rounding the corner many yards down the alley with a head start and an unnatural speed few would have success eclipsing. Mind reeling, all he could acknowledge was that the other two had not been so lucky, only this detail and nothing more.

Marcassin approached his older brother on shaky legs and hugged him tight without warning, in silent gratitude for being able to do so. Neither spoke as the soldiers escorted them back to the palace, and when they exchanged brief glances, it was clear one more trial would have to be faced before the day could come to an end.

* * *

I kind of felt bad writing this chapter, you know, since it put our two main characters in such a frightening ordeal. I could just see Marcassin being far too naïve for his own good. That's why it's better to be cynical like Gascon.

Please review, my dears!


	5. Chapter 5: No Son of Mine

Finally, a new chapter has arrived! I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: No Son of Mine**

When the two brothers were brought before their father in the palace library, Gascon felt as if _they_ were the criminals and not the men they had so recently been rescued from, though he couldn't say how much of this guilt was simply due to being in the man's presence and how much of it had already been there to begin with.

While relief should have been the overwhelming factor at play right now after having so narrowly avoided calamity, all he felt was a gnawing sickness deep in the pit of his stomach. To be honest, he felt this way every time he was made to see his father anymore, and the urge to run was even stronger today than it usually was. Lately, and with a growing frequency, he wished to run from the palace and never look back. If it hadn't been for Marcassin…

The emperor had not once looked their way since their arrival, had not once acknowledged their existence even when the captain of the Royal Guard had divulged the news of the princes' discovery. That man had since left them. Gascon found himself rubbing his thumb along the fingers of his right hand, a hardly worthy distraction as their father's attention remained steadfast upon the crackling fireplace that was the room's centerpiece, as if that was a far more engaging use of his time than what he would find once he turned around. In fact, their view consisted of no more than his back and the arms he had tucked behind himself, a closed invitation to speak without express permission. If only it didn't have to end, the elder prince could possibly learn to live with this new arrangement.

"This morning, I was informed that both of you had been discovered missing from the palace."

The two brothers straightened to attention. Their father's voice was low, his words calm, but a dangerous edge was there that Gascon knew all too well. The man's gaze remained on the dancing flames upon the hearth as he continued, volume growing, "And when I hear word that you've been found at last, it is four hours later and due only to the commotion you had both been caught in the midst of."

Gascon thought he caught his brother flinch out of the corner of his eye as their father's voice boomed, and as soon as the man turned around, the elder prince felt his very being wither beneath the hardness of the man's eyes, as unyielding as diamonds and as sharp as the most finely honed blade. Sharper. Never before had anyone stood before that gaze and won.

"Whose fool idea was it to go wandering outside the palace without permission?"

Neither said a word, but the way Marcassin hung his head and Gascon's eyes had turned to studying every line and curve of the ornately detailed fireplace was enough to give away any guilt as if they had announced it to the fanfare of drums and trumpets.

The emperor's gaze swept across them, lingering on Gascon longest of all. He swallowed at the attention and resisted the urge to meet his gaze. Even if their father's focus had only considered him for a moment, Marcassin began to squirm under the weight of the room's very silence, and Gascon just caught the whisper of words, but not their meanings.

"Speak up!"

The child's head jerked up at the command. "It-it was my idea. I just…I just wanted to see the city. It wasn't Gascon's fault, Father. I _asked_ him, and-and they were bad people, and—"

"Enough."

Marcassin's jaw clamped shut, his mouth only opening once more to take his first breath since those words had burst forth from his lips.

"And by what authority," their father went on, "does _Gascon_ have to give you a tour of our fine city, hmm? And I'm sure the outfits were just something you had lying around?"

The child stammered over a response he had yet to create, but he was rescued from having to form any actual words when Gascon spoke up over him. "It was…it was my idea actually. Marcassin did ask…to…to look around, but we were already out to begin with. The clothes were only to avoid," he faltered, and his gaze fell, "to avoid being noticed."

"And yet, that didn't seem to keep you out of trouble, now did it?" The emperor paused to fix them in a gaze that could freeze fire, if only he gave the command. "And, thus far, I have yet to hear any _good_ reason as to why you felt the need to wander off and risk your own safety."

The elder prince glanced over at his brother. Their eyes met, an unspoken question traveling between them. There was no other way around it. Gascon frowned a silent apology and turned back to their father.

"You see, the thing is," he began, doing his best to ignore the wide-eyed stare Marcassin was directing his way, "Marcassin…he-he can use magic, and I was just helping him practice."

Their father didn't respond right away, but merely turned to study his youngest son as if he could confirm this statement by mere looks alone. "Is this true?" the emperor asked.

Marcassin sent a plaintive glance at his brother before bobbing his head in a meek nod.

"Then show me."

The child's eyes grew wider still, and his gaze jumped between the two in such a way that he bore an odd resemblance to a rabbit caught between two predators.

"It's all right, Marcassin," Gascon said. "Just show him what I taught you."

Marcassin attempted to stand as tall as his small frame would allow and closed his eyes, the picture of concentration. They turned to watch the fireplace as the flames within began to shrink with almost tangible protest, withdrawing into itself as if some unfelt wind was competing for control of the hearth. The fire shuddered against the spell working to push it down, and it only receded the smallest fraction more before it burst from its invisible constraints, just as strong as it had been before the child had first attempted to influence it. Marcassin opened his eyes to witness the results of his efforts and, upon confirming them, turned away to chew on his lower lip.

"I see," was their father's only response.

Gascon sighed. "I swear he can do better than that. But, that's why we've been practicing, so—"

"Why is it that you did not come to me first?"

"B-because we…uh…" the elder prince began, but trailed off when he could find no reason that would ease their father's judgement.

"Had you been a suitable choice for teaching _anyone_ magic, Gascon, that is still no excuse for disobeying me. Both of you should know by now that you are not allowed to leave the palace alone. I just hope your ordeal today will be more effective motivation to obey my commands. Marcassin, you are dismissed."

Gascon tensed, and the two brothers exchanged frantic stares. For once, that was an order he would have been more than happy to be included in.

Marcassin opened and closed his mouth several times before he settled for clamping it shut and leaving it that way. He met his elder brother's eyes in a look of utter horror, an apology for whatever he was leaving him to, but the flicker of a glance in their father's direction was enough to send him for the door in a stiff march. He jerked to a halt when the emperor spoke up once more.

"And go change into something less befitting a beggar. You will have those clothes burned. Do you understand me?"

The child remained rooted to the spot at the harshness in which these words were spoken, the rigidity of his stance no doubt responsible for his lack of an answer. And then, as if from some unseen push, he lurched forward again, his pace increasing in speed as he went. His footfalls echoed on the hard floor, the only sound as they awaited his exit, until the door closed behind him with frightening finality. If his younger brother had provided even just an ounce of comfort, it was an empty feeling indeed to stand here without it. Just like that, his father's height had doubled, his eyes gleaming like roaring flames without any of the warmth.

"I…I don't understand," the elder prince turned back to his father, "why can't I—"

"Do you really not get it? You're not stupid, but you ask as if you don't understand the gravity of what you nearly allowed to happen. This is far more grave than neglecting your studies or—"

Gascon's eyes narrowed. " _Me_? Why is this only _my_ fault—"

"You will be silent when I am speaking!"

The strength of these words made Gascon freeze, anything else he had meant to say dying on his lips.

"You are the eldest, Gascon!" the emperor went on, "I expect _more_ , but it is far too rare that I get it. You are not a child anymore. I have tried for years to make you understand this, that your actions have consequences, that a prince has more responsibility. I have obviously failed to make you see my side, but today I can't step aside and allow such foolishness to continue. Your brother was nearly kidnapped today thanks to your judgement, and—"

As much as a voice from within screamed at him to do otherwise and despite the earlier chill that had frozen the prince's words to ice before they had even had the chance to leave his throat, any restraint he had earlier possessed had begun to thaw. Until it melted entirely. Words he would never dare utter before reached a boil inside him, and he released them without any ability to hold them back any longer.

"You don't think I know that?" Gascon said, fists tightening. "I know what happened! I was there! And if you didn't realize, I was in danger, too!"

His father had displayed an unnerving amount of patience throughout his son's brief outburst, and only when even the echo itself had finished its repetition did he respond. "Whose point are you trying to prove?"

"Only that…you were only concerned about Marcassin, not me." Gascon's arms were shaking, his words leaving his mouth out of pure impulse rather than sense. "You never…you were never…"

"You put yourself in that situation. Marcassin only followed you into it."

The prince's voice shook as his resolve already began to weaken. "That's…that's _not_ how it happened. You don't _understand_ —"

He bit back anything else that threatened to spill forth when his father raised one hand. When he spoke no more, the man lowered it back down again with the composure of a statue, in stark contrast to his son's quaking limbs.

"Gascon, how long have you been visiting the city?"

Gascon's heart leapt in his chest. "I-I never said I—"

"I am curious to know how my son, whom I have provided for to a level far exceeding what he often deserves, managed to find those _rags_ on such short notice."

The prince looked down at himself, and it was only now that he recalled with horror the attire he had been wearing this entire time. When he looked up again, he found he had no more to say than he had a moment ago.

"You will not dress that way ever again. And in case I am not making myself clear, as much as you'd like to be a commoner or have tricked yourself into believing that their lifestyle is so much easier than your own, we are royalty, and you shame not only yourself, but me, when you gallivant about the city dressed like a street urchin. No son of mine will be permitted to sink so low. I will not allow it!"

Gascon's face had grown hot and his cheeks burned. And deep inside, something snapped. "Maybe I'm not your son anymore." No, something had shattered. And he knew there was no turning back now.

The emperor's expression darkened. "Excuse me?"

Gascon sucked in a deep breath as if it was his last, and his fists tightened enough that his nails dug into his palms. "Maybe…I-I'm not your son anymore! Maybe…maybe someday, I won't be here anymore, and it'll just be you and Marcassin, just like you've always wanted it, and you'll never have to see me again!"

His voice echoed off the walls, the words themselves lost, but the meaning behind the repeating syllables far from forgotten. His chest heaved, scarce reflection of what seethed beneath the surface. If he had possessed better judgement once, it had fled as soon as he had uttered those fateful words.

Throwing away any instinct of self-preservation, he bowed. "Permission to leave, your _Majesty_?"

His father's face paled. It was, to Gascon's recollection, the first time he had ever lacked a response. He should savor it. He should enjoy this moment of power, but instead, he turned and left the room. The first place that came to mind was his own bedroom, and it was here his feet led him. His chest felt hollow, and in all honesty, that was how it had felt throughout his entire outburst, an icy numbness where there should have been fire. He thought back to what he had said, replayed it all word by word. His pace quickened, his speed growing with each repetition.

What had he just done? He had yelled at his father before and had always lived to regret the consequences. No, that was not even the same. He had _screamed_. He had said things whose meanings he had not been able to truly comprehend until now.

He'll kill me. He'll bloody kill me.

The prince began to run like one being pursued, a mad scramble that only ended when he ducked into the safety of his room and shut the door behind him. Without the strength to hold back any longer, Gascon threw himself down onto his bed and sobbed into his arms.

* * *

By the way, I am well aware of the fact that the emperor showed no concern when his sons were missing in the game, but I forgot that part when I originally wrote this. So there is a bit of a discrepancy… Either way, this particular situation is one I believe their father would be far more upset about, so his anger is still justified, no?

Please review and give me your thoughts, my dears!


	6. Chapter 6: Where Fate Leads

Sorry for the delay, everyone. As I worked further into the story, I became quite dissatisfied with the direction the plot was taking. As a result, I had to rewrite a large section of the story, which explains why everything took so long. It's much better now. I promise.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Where Fate Leads**

Gascon had long believed that he had been born sick in the same way some children were born colorblind and others were born with an extra toe. His affliction, however, was not a physical one, but of a variety entirely of the mind, a disease of restless longings that only grew more and more powerful with each year that passed.

Sometimes, he dreamed of visiting Castaway Cove, where he would learn the seafaring ways and become the world's most cunning pirate. Other times, he imagined how he might one day travel to the Miasma Marshes and slay the mystical water monster he had read so many stories about. Legend said the beast could all too easily be mistaken for just another fog-enshrouded island rising out of the muddy waters and had brought about the end of many a weary traveler who had failed to take notice of a landmass that had not been there mere moments ago. Of course, if dreams even were a time for being practical, he had to admit that at this point in his life, having thus far fallen short of his full height (if he wished hard enough, surely he could grow another few inches at least), perhaps he would be better off sticking to merely searching for the creature for now and leaving the slaying for later.

He had left Hamelin behind with no more than a single glance backwards, his only accompaniments his newly completed gun for defending himself against monsters and bandits, along with a suitable sum of guilders the former would be perfect for protecting.

As for Marcassin, he had given him no more forewarning than a farewell when it was time to go and a promise that he would return if ever his little brother had need of him. He wasn't certain if that was a promise he _could_ keep, but he couldn't imagine what needs the boy would have at that age, when he had the ruler of the world's largest empire to dote on him. The promise really should have been the other way around, he had attempted to joke with himself, but at the moment, the thought really wasn't very funny.

Before he had gone, he had been sure to give Marcassin the sword their father had bestowed on him four years prior. It had, in fact, been a better idea than he had expected, for a reason few would have guessed. It kept his hands full. It was this important detail that made it impossible for his younger brother to grab hold of him, either to hug him or to grasp at the end of his sleeve in an effort to prevent him from leaving. Because it might have worked. If Marcassin had been given the chance to delay his big brother's departure, he might have succeeded, and Gascon couldn't afford any more time to second guess himself.

Father could forget he ever existed, for all he cared.

While he certainly had no intention of visiting the Miasma Marshes anytime soon, and the ship that visited from Castaway Cove wouldn't be back for another several months, he decided his first destination as an ordinary teenage boy, not a prince, not royalty, needn't be chosen ahead of time at all. He would simply venture wherever fate brought him, and so he headed straight for the coast with the hopes of boarding the first vessel he found. It seemed today was one of the few rare instances in which Lady Luck had decided to favor him, for he just managed to catch a few sailors loading their jolly boats with a shipment of coal from Hamelin before their eventual return to the ship awaiting them some distance from shore. They would only take him along if he was sixteen, and he hardly counted it as a lie when the truth was only a year off. Twenty guilders was enough to put a stop to any further questions they might have.

That was the funny thing about nobility. Everyone knew who you were, but when you found yourself standing face to face with someone else, no one could recognize you after all the time you spent keeping your distance from the world.

The voyage across the sea took two weeks, and aside from a rather vicious bout of seasickness near the beginning, Gascon had never felt so alive. Each morning brought the sun's warmth on his face, and he watched every sunset from the ship's prow, where he relished in the feel of the wind through his hair and the spray of the ocean on his skin as the sky would ignite with the final flames of an ebbing day. He had hardly slept a wink that first night. In fact, he had probably spent more of it above deck than below, just staring up at the myriad of glittering lights floating high above. He had never imagined there could be so many stars, and he wondered why Hamelin could ever shut them out as they did. He almost considered never spending another night indoors again, if he could help it.

The former prince ate his meals of salted fish and hard biscuits alone to avoid the suspicious glances the sailors gave him. His father had all his "beggar's clothes" burned a good many months ago, along with the set he had loaned Marcassin, and all he had brought with him was the very clothes he had left home with, all of which maintained the same impeccable condition no one but those of higher breeding enjoyed. The most obvious was his short red coat with gold trim, and as such, it was the first thing that would need to go. His current appearance would hardly do if he wished to become no different from any other boy his age, and as he picked at his food, he contemplated how he might find something he was good at, for being a prince was certainly not something in which he had ever had any success.

He had wandered onto deck the morning of the sixteenth day without bothering to tidy his hair after another night lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat. It was the racket that had woken him, the excited chatter of a dozen voices and the pounding of feet that wished to carry out their task with a greater level of haste than usual. He was forced to step out of the way more than once as he attempted to cross over to the bow of the ship, and it was here that the cause for their apparent hurry became known to him.

Land. A great mass loomed ahead as if it had risen up from the sea itself to greet them. It stretched out between both ends of the horizon, a great continent he felt deep in his chest would be nothing like the one he had left behind. Gascon placed his hands on the railing and leaned forward, as if bringing himself just a few inches closer would allow him to study it that much better.

A small town waited for them, comprised of little houses speckled amongst the cliff side. His eyes were drawn skyward a moment later by the sound of screeching just in time to catch the first group of white birds with black-tipped wings flapping and wheeling their way towards them through the misty morning sky.

"The gulls are here to guide us home, men!" he heard the captain call out behind him, and a part of him felt that he might have a place in that statement himself.

* * *

When Gascon first set out to find his place in the world, he had believed the task to be a relatively simple one. The world was massive and full to the brim with possibilities, after all, and it stood to reason that, out of all those possibilities, there would be at least a handful he might fancy as the role best suited for him.

The town to which fate had carried him was small, possessing only a fraction of the population of Hamelin. The people here were so few in number, in fact, that the entirety of the residents could have lived comfortably within the palace he had once called home. A questioning of the sailors told him the place went by the name of Lari, while it was experience that told him how very foul a fishing community could smell even in just the mild warmth of late spring. Only future days would allow him to discover to what atrocious levels the odor would surely climb in the dead heat of summer.

The smell was so ingrained in the town's very essence that even closed windows couldn't keep it out. The majority of it, he believed, was simply because the odor was a distinguishing fixture of the town, like an old landmark or the thriving population of sea gulls they held in so high regard. The rest came from the perpetually simmering pot of fish stew wafting from the ground floor of the inn in which he currently resided. Named the Cat's Cradle just like Hamelin's most popular inn, this one distinguished itself by a tavern on the ground floor that kept returning sailors fed on the pungent "bounties of the sea", of which they so raucously boasted over their abilities to net. Gascon suspected the perpetration of that ever-bubbling stew, even in the wee hours of the morning, was not so much for flavor and preparation for evening as much as it was to force one into alertness from the moment they woke up.

He believed this with every fiber of his being, as he had experienced proof of his convictions every morning since his arrival. Waking up to such a smell was enough to jolt one's nerves, and he began this particular morning by pressing his nostrils into his pillow, along with the rest of his face, without care for the potential for suffocation he was inflicting upon himself, just as he had every morning prior.

The dull light filtering through thin, somewhat moth-eaten, curtains was the first indication morning had arrived, even if it was not the first thing responsible for him being awake to begin with. It was one thing being aware of the lower standards the rest of the world lived in; it was quite another experiencing it. His new room, the sole space he could now award the lukewarm title of home, was small, hardly larger, in fact, than the canopy bed he had left behind. Or so it certainly felt. The furniture, which was not his own, but was available to him, consisted of a narrow bed of about the same hardness as the floor, but without the potential for splinters, a wash basin on a table, a chair kept steady thanks to the dusty tome beneath one back leg, whose title had since worn away, and a wardrobe. The room was drafty at night, humid during the day, and he was never awarded the privilege of a securely closed window because the buckling of wood in perpetually damp air had led to a gap in the left side too thin for him to plug up with a spare sock, but too thick not to notice. In short, his new life could not have been more different if a law had been made declaring it.

Gascon washed his face and got dressed, the first ritual of every morning before he faced another day spent searching for that mythical state he had left home to find. Discovering what one was good at sounded a lot more monumental when going about it in an unfamiliar setting, and as he combed the many terraces of the cliff-side village in search of a job that might be right for him, he was often stopped by the small, painted houses of those who dwelt here, if only to give his focus over, even if just momentarily, to a task that required a fraction of the thought.

He had remembered first spotting them from the ship nearly two weeks ago, but the only thing he had been able to make out at the time was their primary colors of white and blue. From that distance, he had been unable to spot the thatched roofs, chosen for their ability to attract the gulls as a place to roost, or the waves painted along the bottoms.

Nearly every house had some form of seascape painted upon it, some of the depictions simple and crude, while others displayed clearly the care in which the painter had placed it there. Some were painted in swirls of blue and white and sometimes green, which blended together where the colors had mingled with their neighbors. Some were clean and precise, while others were wild like the sea they represented. There was one in particular he had no choice but to stop and study upon his first pass by, and several more occasions afterward. Each and every time he came upon this particular dwelling, he couldn't help but marvel at the way the water seemed to shimmer and sparkle before his very eyes, the entire scene painted with such artistry that a very real part of him worried that it might spill forth and engulf him.

He had yet to find a single soul willing to hire him by that afternoon, though he couldn't say any available option held much appeal, either. When he set out to find his place in life, his aspirations weren't quite as vague as they might have sounded when he spoke them aloud. He might have given up his status as a prince, but that did not mean he wished to replace it with the occupation of fisherman or baker. Would that make his father proud, when his youngest son would one day take on the responsibilities of Emperor and Great Sage, while the eldest ranked no higher than the common laborer? It seemed a futile effort to even attempt to compete with his little brother to begin with. _Marcassin_ could wield magic. _Marcassin_ was the favorite. Gascon was neither of these things.

Who was he fooling?

Gascon had no choice but to shake such uncertainties away every time they attempted to take root in his mind. It was still far too early to allow such doubts to overwhelm him. There had to be something out there for him, and if there was, he would find it. He wasn't one to give up easily, after all, considering the dozen or more times he had managed to track down Hamelin's black market when even the soldiers themselves had trouble finding it in their ongoing efforts to shut it down.

Nevertheless, he supposed it was about time he learned to be a tad less picky. At least for now. Perhaps his preferences as to what was and was not worthy of a former prince had yet to be fulfilled, but money was money no matter where it came from. Although he had brought along a tidy sum of guilders to get him by, it wouldn't last forever without a means of replenishing it.

It was the uncertain period between late afternoon and early evening that he spotted a girl of about his age, though it was her unlikely location that drew his eye most of all. She was currently on all fours on a rooftop, and from this distance, it appeared she was weaving thatch into a bare patch roughly half a meter in diameter. Though her fingers moved with nimble skill, her green dress and brown curls, both of which had stray fibers of straw sticking from them at odd angles, didn't seem particularly well-suited to the task.

Gascon stopped to squint up at her against the backdrop of the late sun, hands to his waist. She took no notice of him, and even less to his intentions, of which he was well aware he must make known before her task progressed any closer to completion.

"For a few guilders," he began, "I could help you with that. Together, we could probably finish before sundown."

Her eyes lifted from her task, and she looked about the rooftop on which she was perched, as if the ground below had been entirely forgotten to her. As if in a moment of revelation, she looked his way, as if she had indeed been aware of his presence all along.

She absently picked a few strands of thatch from her hair. "You're certainly direct, aren't ya?"

He shrugged. "I thought money was too important a detail not to mention."

She blinked down at him before turning back to the job still left unfinished beside her. "Well, how 'bout…if you do _all_ of the work, I'll pay ya a little. I don't have much money t' spare, so I'll happily do it myself if I have to."

"Point taken."

"If we have a deal… _do_ we have a deal?"

He grinned. "Why, of course, I wouldn't dream of haggling any longer with a shrewd negotiator such as yourself." With a hand to his chest, he bowed low, and he heard her giggle.

Without further delay, she climbed down the awaiting ladder. "I'm glad ya got here when ya did," she went on, the glimmer of a smirk in her blue eyes, "I'm sure ya can't see it from here, but there's a hole that needs repairs. Water damage from all the rain we've been getting' lately, y'see. I was just gettin' the thatch outta the way, but now you can do the hard stuff."

His own grin had proven temporary, for a frown had begun to form in its place the entire time she had been speaking. "The…'hard stuff'?" he repeated.

She smiled, batting her eyelashes in a manner that made her appear that much more crafty. "The wood and nails are over there." She pointed to a pile of timber stacked up beside the house he had failed to notice until now. "Well, I guess you'll wanna get started. You won't get paid 'til ya finish."

She wiggled her fingers at him and, with a quick farewell, disappeared inside.

* * *

The first half of this chapter is one of the original scenes I had written, while the second half is completely new, including the girl, who was not in the original version of the story. I'm really happy with the new changes, and I think it'll make for a much better story in the end. Oh, and Lari is the Suborder sea gulls belong to, in case you were wondering about the town's name.

Like always, please review, my dears!


	7. Chapter 7: Katrine

**Chapter 7: Katrine**

It took Gascon less than three weeks to learn his way around the port town of Lari almost as well as those born here. He suspected it was all thanks to his prior experience navigating the city of his birth that made finding the hidden passages and shortcuts of the cliff side village as easy as putting on shoes in comparison. The former prince knew which shopkeepers could be more easily persuaded to lower their prices and which walkways had fewer potholes for him to trip over. He was also privy to the fact that there was a house on the third terrace that stored a ladder in the neighboring alley, which served as the perfect shortcut to the street above. It was only a shame there was no place for such talents in the world of common laborers, or else he'd be the best of his trade.

Nevertheless, it took him the better part of a week to find her again, and when he did finally spot the girl with the hazel curls from across the town square one muggy afternoon, it was only the thought of losing track of her again that forced him to approach her.

She had, upon closer inspection, been shopping for goods in the marketplace, for her arms were weighed down with baskets she managed to carry with grace and poise despite their bulk. He caught her attention with a raised hand, and his heart almost crawled up into his throat at the initial incomprehension her face bore at his arrival. Whatever Gascon had meant to say fled from him at that moment, but he was saved the trouble of trying to recall it when she smiled.

"I can't afford t' pay ya for anythin' else," were her first words upon their reunion, and he knew he spotted a sparkle in her eye that suggested the cunning of a fox. "Of course," she swayed this way and that so that her simple blue skirt, the only detail a line of tiny pink ribbons just above the hem, swung about her ankles, "a proper gentleman really doesn't make a lady pay for favors."

He scratched his head. "I'm not sure I ever said I _was_ a gentleman."

"Well, I'm at least a lady, am I not?"

"You tell _me_."

She nudged her head in the direction she had previously been heading, and he walked with her down the nearest cobblestoned street. He could blame its narrow width, a feature of _all_ streets and paths of this town, for any close proximity to her, had she decided to mention it. She didn't.

"You're…new in town," she began and glanced his way. "I mean, I assume. 'Cause Lari's a small place, and I don't recall seein' you before the other day.

"Yes, I…moved here…with my father, just over a month ago." He caught her gaze dart downwards, and when he followed its path, he remembered the load in her arms. "Do you…" he pointed to the basket closest to him, "want me to carry anything?" He flashed her a crooked grin. "Free of charge, of course."

"I'd been waitin' for ya t' ask the entire time."

"What kind of a gentleman would I be if I hadn't? And it took me less than five minutes."

"That's probably a record in certain parts o' the world."

Gascon's eyebrows rose on his forehead at this statement, but he was spared the chance to ponder over her meaning for much longer when she handed him the entirety of her goods. He could claim it was flattering she didn't suspect he might steal the lot of it, but it was more likely she was only confident due to the fact that moving at any increased speed was impossible with such a load.

"Is he a fisherman?" she asked, straightening her dress with a few downward tugs now that her arms were free. "'Tis pretty much the way of everyone here, so that's why I ask, y'see."

He hefted a basket packed with turnips in an effort to get a better grip on the handle. "Yeah."

"Times are tough right now, with…y'know…" her voice fell to a whisper, "the Dark Djinn an' all." She clasped her hands together, her strides coming in the slow, meandering fashion of one in no hurry to get where they were going. Her pace, he had noticed, had changed as soon as the one doing the carrying had switched. "My mother worries so, even when I remind her time and time again that we're probably safer than most. Why would he bother with us when there are entire _cities_ t' pester? At least, that's how _I_ look at it."

"Mmm." He gave an absent nod in reply.

"'Tisn't good for her t' fret as she does, but…" She laughed and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm probably borin' ya. No one wants t' hear about someone else's problems when they have plenty of their own."

Gascon shook his head. "It's fine, I really don't mind." A gust of wind swept in from over the ocean, and he had to plant his feet in place to prevent himself from getting blown over. She, on the other hand, appeared completely unmoved. Her steadiness could only be due to practice. They had no wind in Hamelin. He turned to better study the ocean below them. "You're village…it has a nice view, doesn't it?" He looked over when she failed to answer. "Or do you disagree?"

"Well, personally…" she drew closer to stand beside him, "I hate the ocean. I hate seein' it each day I look out my window."

"Really? A lot of people _wished_ they lived near the ocean."

"A lotta people don't understand how cruel it can be. I can't count how many men the sea has taken since this village was built, my own father among them."

"Oh, well, I…I didn't mean…"

"I know. And _you_? Do you like the ocean, that is?"

Gascon drew in a long breath through his nose as the breeze ruffled his hair. "I used to want to be a pirate. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, I suppose it does. It tells me a few other things, as well," she added, but when his gaze left the sea to turn to her, she looked away. Even from this angle, however, he thought he still detected the evidence of a smile.

They continued down the street, stray flurries of wind continuing to pull at their clothes, though he seemed to be the only one having a difficult time remaining upright. Even the gulls overhead merely allowed the wind to guide their flight rather than hinder it. He nearly walked into a building before realizing she had stopped, and whether or not she had noticed, he was at least grateful she failed to address it.

"Well, here I am. I need t' make my mother lunch, but…" she tapped a finger to her cheek, "I just realized…I've forgotten t' ask your name."

Gascon's heart stopped. In all his short time here, he hadn't yet had any need to provide anyone with his name. He had always planned on coming up with a new one, for if he was going to shed his title of prince and give up the nicer things in life that went along with it, it only made sense to change the name of his birth, as well.

Under the warmth of her smile, he was finding it impossible to think straight at the moment.

He delayed answering in favor of licking his lips, well aware of how it might look if he failed to answer such a simple question. "M-Mar…" he began and cursed himself at once for being so foolish as to consider taking on his little brother's name as his own, She blinked at him and tilted her head, a clear indication that he was running out of time.

"G-Gaston," he said, the butchering of his own name thanks to his sudden inability to speak. He was an idiot, and he would have slapped a hand to his forehead if he hadn't already made himself look like a proper loon. Or if even one of his hands had been free.

"Gaston?" she repeated, though the slow manner in which she said it suggested she was about as unsure as he was.

"Gascon. I…I said Gascon. That's…what my name is." It was a blessing he was still holding her groceries. Otherwise he might have cut his losses and ran for it.

"Gascon," she said, even more carefully this time in her pronunciation. "Did I get that right?"

He nodded once he realized his jaw was glued shut.

"Well, I'm Katrine. It's been very nice talkin' t' you. We'll…see each other again some time. Right?"

He nodded again. "Yeah."

"Wonderful. Uh, can I have my things back now?"

"Sure." Uncertain as to what she was asking due to the recent whistling he had developed in his ears, he made no move to return her possessions. It was only after she reached for them herself that he relinquished his grip. Now he was free to run. Straight into the ocean.

"I-it was nice meeting you, too" he said over her "thank you" and turned to march away in a far stiffer manner than he intended.

"Gascon," she said, and he jerked to a stop before he had gone more than ten feet.

"Yeah?" he asked and turned back to face her.

"If you're still havin' trouble findin' work, I know just the man t' talk to. Jameson. He employs my brother, as well, and he can use more workers from time to time. You can find 'im…"

A shrill female voice broke in over her from inside the house. "Kat? Kat, is that you?"

"Yeah, Mama, 'tis me!" she called through the open front door. Returning her attention to him, she went on, "I gotta go. Just ask around. I'm sure someone can point ya in the right direction."

By the time Gascon could develop the courage to thank her, she had already gone inside.

* * *

Random note, Katrine's name was somewhat inspired by the word kittiwake, a species of seabird in the seagull family, Laridae. Now isn't that neat? Please read and review, my dears.


	8. Chapter 8: Lari's Local Legend

This chapter had some major editing, in part thanks to Anqied's comment for chapter 6 reminding me of Gascon's "attitude problems", which really helped me to…"refocus" his personality and actions, so to speak. Thanks again for that! Now, on with the chapter!

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Lari's Local Legend**

Gascon did not take Katrine's advice until nearly a week later. After all, when he had set out to find what he was good at, he had vowed to do so without assistance of any kind, a rule that was not merely confined to the title and wealth he had since given up. And besides, who else could properly judge what he was and was not suited for but he himself? At least, that's the excuse he told himself.

It hadn't been difficult to locate Jameson's place of business, as everyone in Lari seemed to be familiar with him. In fact, the manner in which they spoke of him seemed to indicate he was some form of folk legend, leading Gascon to wonder if the figure Katrine had pointed him to even existed to begin with or was merely some fictitious character the entirety of the town's residents knew about. Upon questioning the people he met in the street on Jameson's whereabouts, he was more often than not provided instead with grand stories of his exploits, the majority of which revolved around how this man had, supposedly, prevented their village from slipping into the sea roughly two decades ago during an event that had since become known simply as "the Great Storm".

He couldn't say he was impressed. Probably because he didn't believe a word of it.

What Gascon found once he had followed the directions provided to Lari's very own local hero was an unassuming building nestled amidst countless others on one of the town's upper terraces. The blue and white paint adorning its front had faded in the sun and had started to blend together into a dull bluish grey. The only detail of importance that distinguished it from any other shop or residence in the area was the word "Jameson" painted on a sign hanging above the door. In fact, that single word was the freshest thing about the place.

The door triggered a bell when he passed through it, and as he wandered into the small, musty room beyond, a quick scan of his surroundings told him that the room was currently unoccupied, save for whatever resided in the glass bowl resting on the old wooden desk in the corner. Along the wall closest to him were tacked an untold number of articles and clippings from Lari's local newspaper, Gull's Insight, which covered the space like some sort of makeshift wallpaper. It would not have required any stretch of the imagination for him to guess what topic united them all.

He was just in the middle of studying the bowl's contents out of idle curiosity when a wiry young man several years his elder emerged from a back room, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail and a fresh scar over his right eye. He knew something had to be off about those stories.

"Have you seen the-oh, afternoon," upon seeing the newcomer, the other boy stopped in mid-stride and propped his arms on either side of the doorframe. "What can I help ya with?"

Gascon straightened, his perusal of the fish bowl yet to have come up with any answers, though he did catch a flicker of movement from within the tallest patch of seaweed. "I was told I could find work here. Uh…" His attention wandered to one newspaper heading in particular which read "Jameson and Crew Slay Dreaded Sea Wyrm". His eyes were drawn upward from there to a large bone nearly his height rimmed with sharp protrusions he had previously suspected was a section of vertebrae, but was, in actuality, a single jawbone. Where in blazes had she sent him? "I mean…" he retreated backwards several paces, "of course, I doubt I'm even qualified, so…so I should probably…"

The older boy snatched a jar from a nearby shelf and came forward. "Ah, so we've got a new kid who wants to join the team, eh? No qualifications here. All ya need to work for old man Jameson is an able body. At least," he stopped behind the desk and poured what appeared to be a dried fish head into the glass bowl, "that's what he always says."

"Oh, so…so you're not…"

Screwing the lid back onto the jar, the older teen laughed. "Nah. I'm just another member of his crew. What…you thought…" he pointed to his chest and chuckled again. "You must not be from around here if ya don't know old Jameson. Who told ya to come here anyway?" He set the jar down beside the bowl, the remaining fish heads settling inside.

Gascon shrugged, unable to hide a grimace at the jar's gruesome contents. "Just a girl I met the other day."

At these words, the other boy's gaze sharpened, his smile loosening an equal degree. "A girl, huh? This lass wouldn't happen to be Katrine, would she?"

Gascon stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the fish head still bobbing on the water's surface. It seemed much too large for whatever it was intended to feed. "I don't know if I got her name. Why do you ask?"

"She's just my sister, is all. She's liable to put me outta work if she starts sendin' over too many new faces." He gave a soft chuckle, but the earlier humor seemed to be absent. There was a splash, but by the time Gascon looked over, he was unable to catch any more than a dark shape retreating back into the safety of the seaweed. The fish head was gone.

The younger boy turned back to the other, their eyes locking. "Well, if it was her, she was just giving me advice. She's a nice girl."

"She is."

"But…if you don't have any work for-"

"If my sis sent ya here," the older boy came around the desk, "I might as well give you that job she promised ya. 'Tis the least a brother can do. Name's Connor." He thrust out a hand, but Gascon was already out of reach, having decided to head for the door before the other boy had even been given a chance to announce his name.

"You know what, why don't I return once your boss comes back? I'd hate to get you in trouble if-" He was just about to turn around when he backed into someone, the sound of the bell signifying their arrival going unnoticed until now. When he spun to face the newcomer, he was met with a gnarled, old man with a wide-brimmed hat and tapered beard. Now, if _this_ was Jameson, his appearance alone might have been enough to solidify himself as the mythological figure the town had made him out to be. Of course, whether or not their stories about him held any merit had yet to be determined.

Connor jabbed a nonchalant thumb his way as he went about returning the jar of fish heads to its original shelf, the situation apparently having already lost interest to him. "This kid wants a job. Kat sent him." He paused, turning his head ever so slightly to acknowledge them from out of the corner of his eye. "He's…new in town."

"Ah, I see, I see." The old man stooped to get a better look at the boy before him, the "kid" in question growing stiff under the man's penetrating gaze. "Name?"

"Gascon."

"Any physical ailments, boy?"

With nowhere else to turn to escape his inspection, he settled for aiming a frown at Connor. "No."

"Your mama and papa all right with their lad engagin' in…potentially risky business?"

"Huh?"

"Good." Gascon was nearly knocked over when Jameson gave him a heavy pat on the back. Old as he may have been, he was anything but frail. The man turned and began to shuffle towards his desk. "You look to be a fine lad. A fine lad indeed."

"You just met me," the former prince said before he could stop himself. Did Katrine have some kind of grudge against him?

With a soft groan, Jameson eased himself into the chair behind his desk, the wood creaking with the weight. Once he was settled, he arched a white, tufted eyebrow at the boy standing across from him. "'Tis a strange one, as well," the man told Connor from behind one hand, though he made no efforts to lower his voice. With that, he laced the fingers of both hands upon the desk in front of him and directed a nod Gascon's way. "If ya got legs that can walk and arms that can carry, then I can make use o' ya. Sit and let me tell ya what we do here."

Gascon frowned at the floor the man had indicated in growing confusion until Connor brought over a chair he had retrieved from the back room. Once he had done as he was told, the old man went on to recount a handful of tales that defied belief and which closely matched the stories the villagers had told just an hour prior, with the exception that his version contained an even greater number of embellishments than theirs did. In short, he was Lari's guardian, and nothing beyond "passing peril" could threaten it. Not while he still breathed anyway, and based on everyone's opinion of him, it seemed more than likely he was considered immortal, as well.

The task: fix what was broken, protect what was not. Village guardian indeed. That was easy for him to say when he had an entire crew of young men at his disposal to do the physical labor he once excelled at in his youth (his words, not Gascon's). Why some forgotten village in the middle of nowhere needed a guardian, Gascon knew not, but Jameson said it was the frequent storms and constant damp that kept the place in a constant state of disrepair. If no one tended to the village, it could very well be wiped from existence with the next hurricane. Or so he said.

Hero, legend, or none of the above, one thing was certain, Jameson was not a man who was prone to mincing his words. As soon as he had completed his introductions, the former prince was assigned to the "drudgery" no one else wanted to do. The work was hard, and he couldn't afford to pay much. But it was important, and one should just be grateful they were given the opportunity to do it.

Gascon, however, couldn't say the sentiment had rubbed off on him. In fact, he was feeling the exact opposite of gratitude at the moment.

* * *

Any bitterness Gascon had begun to feel over what Katrine had gotten him into increased tenfold when he learned that the labor was not only confined to the human residents.

His first task as Jameson's newest lackey involved the seagulls the town seemed to hold in such high regard. They were the guardian angels of sailors, it was said, watching over them and guiding them home when the fog was thick. The town and its people would surely wither and perish without them. That's why Gascon had to relocate their eggs.

It was the very next morning that the work began. He had been told to meet Katrine's brother by the cliff on the north side of town. When Gascon caught sight of him, he noticed the older boy was wearing thick leather gloves that rose to his elbows. That was the first indication that things were not going to go well for him.

"This is important stuff, so that's why I gotta make sure you do it right." Connor stood with his back to the cliff, his hands on his waist and legs outspread to steady himself against the wind. "Ya see that cliff behind me?"

Gascon's face remained impassive, his eyes refusing to wander back to the indicated cliff side. His first viewing of it had been enough. "How could I miss it?" The base of the cliff they stood before had been undercut by the constant crashing of waves, a fact he had noticed upon his initial survey of the sharp rocks below.

"The integrity of this cliff side's been growin' weaker an' weaker this past year, but Jameson fears last month's earthquake may have struck the final blow, so t' speak. Before long, the entire cliff face could slide right into the ocean, and the gulls with it."

"Can't seagulls fly?" the younger boy asked, his resolve faltering when his eyes flickered back to the spot where his impending death would soon occur.

Connor shook his head with a roll of his eyes. "Can seagulls…that's a fine attitude to have. No, seagull eggs and chicks _can't_ fly. That's why we have to move 'em to safer ground."

Gascon crossed his arms and tried to stop himself from shivering in the wind. "Oh, I see. Because the seagull's children are the future, or something like that. Do I have that right?"

"Let's see how funny ya think this is when you're hangin' fifty feet over jagged rocks and poundin' waves." Connor marched for the cliff and, upon reaching the edge, turned back with a smirk. "Should I show ya how it's done, or are you already feelin' confident in your britches?"

"Be my guest. I want to make sure this is even humanly possible before I risk my skin for a bunch of birds."

"All right. Follow along behind me. I assure you, you won't be so cocky in a few minutes."

Without even so much as a pause of hesitation, the older teen took hold of the rock wall looming before him and flipped one foot around onto a ledge Gascon didn't even know was there. The other foot followed suit a second later, and he began sidling along the cliff side with naught but a barely perceptible trail of footholds between him and the sea below.

Gascon thought his blood might have frozen.

Connor stopped and glanced over. "So, are ya comin' or not? I ain't gonna go easy on ya. Not with that cheek you were just sportin'." When Gascon failed to budge, he motioned for him to follow once more with a flip of his head. "Come on."

The younger boy took a few steps closer and leaned forward just enough to bring the sharp rocks below into view once again. Would such a fall be inherently deadly or would he merely suffer a horrible case of mangling? He rather hoped for the former.

"Come on! Quit wastin' time!"

Gascon sucked in a deep breath. Everyone has to die someday, he supposed. Why put it off? The former prince, whose previous life had never before looked so enticing, hugged the cliff wall and slid one foot out onto a protrusion of rock. He waited a moment, and when it supported his weight, he allowed the rest of his body to join it.

He followed along after his guide at a far slower pace, his own heart hammering with such ferocity, he feared it might burst forth from his chest and knock him from his already unsteady perch. Even the wind itself seemed to be working against him as it rushed in his ears and tugged at his short coat, causing him to rock precariously as he inched onward like a particularly lethargic snail.

"Just a little farther. You're doin' fine. Just let the old instincts guide ya."

I have no instincts, Gascon thought. Princes are completely devoid of any such thing. Instincts. Survival skills. Common sense.

"The nests are just a few more feet," Connor went on. "This is when ya gotta be real careful, 'cause the-"

Gascon failed to prevent a cry when something struck him in the head, and, for a second, the belief that he had already bashed his head upon the rocks below jolted through his mind before he realized he was still in the exact same spot as before. He winced at another sharp pain on the other side of his head, all the while becoming distinctly aware of a whooshing from behind that was not the wind.

"Get! Go on! We're just tryin' to help ya, ya dumb birds!"

When he dared peek over at how his comrade was faring, Connor was swatting one leather-clad arm at his own pair of attackers. The screeching birds neatly avoided his attempts to shoo them away with effortless maneuvers, all the while pecking and kicking their clawed, webbed feet in defense of the nest hanging just above his head.

"This is insane!" Gascon said, covering his face once more as his personal assailant pecked him again.

"You should see what it's like when half _aren't_ off catchin' fish! Let's get the eggs and go!" With little regard for the gulls flapping about him, Connor reached up and plucked one egg from the nest and held it out.

Gascon leaned away as far as he dared and shook his head. "I don't want it! They'll kill me!"

"You wanna spend all day out here? Take it and head back! I'll get the rest!"

Gascon reached out for the small object, hissing in pain when a gull pecked him in the hand. "You lot really don't seem worth protecting!" Not wishing to wait for another blow, he snatched the egg and held it to his chest as a warm trickle of blood ran over his hand. If this abuse went on for much longer, his good looks would be the next thing to go, and the heavens knew he didn't have much left after that.

They were chased back to land by a cacophony of angry shrieks and whistles as a mob of enraged seagulls swarmed around them. Once they had returned to the relative safety of solid ground, the two boys rushed all three eggs to the artificial nests that had already been prepared in anticipation of their grueling task amidst an expanse of rocky terrain that could be found a short distance inland. Even once they had been relinquished, the pair were pursued a good twenty feet more before the gulls gave up and left to check on their relocated brood.

Nevertheless, they didn't stop running until they had reached the edge of town and the sound of the gulls had been lost somewhere behind them. Safe at last, Gascon doubled over, hands to his knees as he fought to catch his breath, his body feeling as if it had been battered by a dozen tiny fists. Sharp and pointy fists, no less. Now why had he chosen to leave Hamelin? The place really wasn't so bad, come to think of it. At least there were no birds there.

"Nice job." Connor wiped a few stray puffs of seagull down from his clothing, though he seemed none the worse for wear otherwise. "So, are ya ready to tackle the next one?"

* * *

Ah, this chapter's much better than it used to be…and it's a decent length, too. Please comment, dear readers!


	9. Chapter 9: A Position of Authority

I'm on a role with this story. Another chapter is here.

* * *

 **Chapter 9: A Position of Authority**

Gascon lay awake that night, his body aching from a dozen tiny bruises and his ears ringing from the cries of the creatures that had given them to him. One might have assumed that an exhausted body would be the perfect thing to lull one off to sleep, but such a person would be sorely mistaken. As much as he wanted rest, his mind wouldn't allow it, for it had yet to slow down even long after his feet had. In his head, he was still running away from furious seagulls out for blood.

It would have been immensely helpful if the gulls themselves had been informed of his intentions.

Today's task had been an utterly ridiculous one, and as he stared at the dark space above him where he knew the ceiling ought to be, he mused that it was no real job at all, but rather, one that had been made up solely for the purposes of giving the old man a chance to test just how far one was willing to go under his command. The answer was this: he had already been pushed beyond his limits, and if anyone thought he would return tomorrow to do it all over again, they had another thing coming.

He turned over onto his side, only to flip to the other a second later. While Hamelin was well-known for being one of the most advanced cities in the world, he had greatly underestimated just how far the rest of civilized existence managed to lag behind. To be honest, there wasn't a whole lot the people of Hamelin had to lift a finger for. If any resident of that vast city had chosen to steal bird eggs, had they been bored enough, or insane enough, to do so, they would have found a mechanical way to get the job done that certainly didn't involve getting pecked to death dozens of feet above one's certain demise. Their _second_ demise, to be more exact, once you remembered the seagulls.

With not a second of forewarning, Gascon shot up in bed when an idea struck. He may have no longer been one of Hamelin's countless residents, but that didn't mean he couldn't still think like one.

* * *

It was roughly mid-morning when Gascon approached the cliff face in a purposeful march, a place he would have been mad to return to less than twelve hours prior. Many of the gulls were already flapping about, currently unaware of the human advancing towards them, wheeling and diving into the cold waters below for their morning catch. He made a furtive sweep of his surroundings to ensure he was not being watched and pulled his pistol out from inside his coat. He would have liked to use it for its usual purpose, but that would have to wait for another day.

He had been up late last night, adjusting his pistol's grapple hook attachment and wracking his mind for the perfect way to pad it to better facilitate proper egg handling. He had ended up settling with wrapping two of his spare socks on either prong when nothing better occurred to him. Now it was time to see just how well his efforts would pay off.

He crouched down by some bushes that grew by the cliff side and aimed, one eye squinting of its own accord. Setting his sights on an egg in clear view roughly twenty feet away, he fired the grappling hook. Time slowed, his breath held in anticipation of two opposing outcomes. There was a crackle less than a second later indicating which outcome had come to pass that simultaneously startled him and the gull sitting in the neighboring nest. The bird hopped to its feet just as he ducked behind the shrubbery to watch its actions through the leaves. Its small head swiveled this way and that, and its wings folded and unfolded several times, as if in anticipation of chasing the one responsible for its comrade's misfortune. Unable to locate anything out of the ordinary, however, the seagull eventually settled back into its nest, but not before it cast about itself one final, suspicious sweep.

Gascon peered over the top of the bushes and aimed again, this time with both hands wrapped around the trigger and his elbows locked in an effort to force his arms to remain steady. His hand had wavered last time. That was the only reason it hadn't worked. He fired again, his eyes widening as he watched the padded hook latch onto its next target. Nothing met his ears but the soft rustle of dried plant fibers, though it was enough to attract the attention of the same gull as before. The rope coiled back with equal speed, the egg with it, and in that moment, his eyes, and the gull's, met from across the small expanse dividing them. Spotting the egg thief, well-meaning or no, the gull took flight in eager pursuit.

Gascon snatched the egg free of the hook and began to run, a smirk crossing his lips as the screeching of his pursuer grew in volume behind him. Some might call his efforts laziness. He called them efficiency.

* * *

If someone had told Gascon he would be working for that Jameson fellow another day longer, he would have called them mad. In fact, he had planned on leaving just as soon as he received his pay, but, as it so often happened, one thing led to another, and here he still was.

It was funny how, despite spending his life as a prince, Gacon had never really had authority over anything. Sure, he could order the servants around on the most basic of errands, but he could goad them into no more and no less obedience than what was shown his younger brother. Of course, it couldn't be overlooked that some of them even had the nerve to give _him_ commands, whether to demand he take a bath or return to his studies. Even the head cook had been known to provide a stern word or two whenever he was caught stealing snacks from the palace kitchens, and sometimes he wondered who, in the end, had the real authority, the princes or their servants.

And yet, that all changed when Jameson inquired into how exactly Gascon had been able to complete his task so quickly and with so few bruises. It seemed rather unsettling that an employer should even have to question why one of their underlings was still alive and in possession of all their limbs, but once the teen had explained his methods, the old man had risen to his feet with such fervor, one would think his chair was on fire. Rather, it appeared he merely wanted to congratulate Gascon on his ingenuity, along with nearly yanking the boy's arm from its socket in the intensity of the handshake that followed.

In all honesty, Gascon's knowledge of machinery and other mechanical contraptions simply came from growing up in Hamelin, where nearly everything but the people themselves were mechanical, in one way or another. Nonetheless, that didn't stop the old man from showering him with praise and informing him that his days of hard labor were over. Never before, and never again, would drawing a gun in the presence of one's employer be so rewarded.

They spent the rest of the day exchanging ideas for a project Jameson had been "scratching his mind over" for the last week or so. The town's many terraces, as Gascon himself had already noticed, made navigating the place quite bothersome when one had several stories to ascend and was lacking the willpower to walk so far. Apparently, it was even worse for the shopkeepers who wished to share their wares with the outside world, especially when the caravan drivers who could do just that often didn't have the patience to wait for them to haul their goods up so great a distance. Jameson had already drawn up the blueprints to a lift that could solve the problem. The real obstacle was devising how to power it.

While Gascon was more than familiar with the steam power commonly used back home, it was a different matter entirely incorporating this kind of technology into a town where such advances were still a thing of the distant future. Even so, he supposed he knew enough about how steam turbines worked that he might be able to figure a way to power the lift with wind instead. He knew Lari had plenty of that.

A clear plan of action decided, the old man declared the project fit to begin tomorrow. But this time, Gascon would not be responsible for the grunt work. He was, rather, to be in charge of this particular assignment thanks to Jameson's faith in him. His own father had never spared him as much.

The fact that he was only overseeing one other person mattered little. The thrill of telling someone else what to do, and not due to his title, was more than enough.

His "inferior", as he preferred to think of him, the term applying to more than just rank, was a stubby young man of about Connor's age called Reese. He was built like a squat oak, and he bore it all with about as much personality. While Gascon had bigger plans for himself one day, he thought this guy fit into the role of manual laborer quite nicely.

They began their work from the comfort of the small workshop situated in the back of Jameson's office, and by the second day, they had already taken their task outside to begin installation of the windmill blades and pulley system high upon the clifftop on Lari's north end to facilitate much quicker movement between the top of the cliff and the bottom. It was here that the former prince's mechanical prowess would really get a chance to shine, and with it, his authority.

Throughout it all, Reese obeyed Gascon's instructions without protest despite their age difference and the vast discrepancy between the length of their respective employments to the old man. In all honesty, it was a baffling sort of obedience that the younger boy thought greatly diminished the satisfaction he should be feeling over his superior rank. He had expected to be questioned. He had expected some sort of resistance that would inevitably force him to remind his comrade exactly who was in charge here. He had expected the other to lament over the blatant unfairness of the arrangement. But he didn't do any of those things.

As the second day progressed in a silent productivity Gascon doubted he could claim any real responsibility for, he began to order his comrade to pick up the pace even though they were already ahead of schedule. And the older boy did it, without complaint or the slightest indication of grumbling. In fact, this guy had not spoken more than a handful of words since they had first been assigned to work together, save for a muttered "mornin'" at the start of each day and a nod when Gascon informed him for the third time that morning that, in the short span of two days, he had already managed to attain a higher rank than the other. He counted the last one as a word because he had nothing else to work with.

They had fastened the windmill blades in place, along with the pulley system to go with it, just shy of noon. Building the lift itself and putting it all together would come later. But first, Gascon announced that lunch was upon them even as Reese was in the middle of reaching for his lunch pail. It was going to be _his_ idea when they ate.

They remained in that spot for their midday break, Gascon settling upon a small boulder jutting out from the ground while his comrade plopped down right in the grass. Taking a bite from his apple, he tried to ignore the mutton sandwich his companion was currently munching on. Fruit was cheap. Meat, he had found, was not.

"We'll probably be able to finish up tomorrow," he reiterated when he could think of nothing else authoritative to say.

Rather than answer, the other boy simply stared at him, chewing slowly, like a rather bizarre looking cow.

"You've…been working for Jameson long?" Gascon asked. He received a shrug coupled with a nod. Should he take that as a yes, or was Reese really not sure how long it had been?

"I haven't. Just a few days." He had already said that a couple hours ago. And thrice yesterday. But if he was to be the only one stuck doing the talking, he'd have to recycle a few topics every now and then. "He said I don't have to do the really difficult work anymore because…"

He trailed off just as his comrade lowered his sandwich to his lap when Katrine's brother ran up to them, the apparent finale of what had been a thoroughly unimpressive discussion.

"It's mother," was all Connor said by way of greeting, his words short and clipped as he fought to catch his breath.

Those two words were enough motivation to send Reese to his feet, the sandwich still clutched in his hand, but looking assuredly out of place in contrast to the grave expression on his usually empty countenance. "She's worse, then," he said in confirmation to something Gascon had apparently missed. "Is it serious?"

Gascon eyed the two of them in turn from where he remained on the ground. He had begun to contemplate the wisdom of leaving, but neither of them seemed to remember his presence to begin with.

"It could be," was all Connor said. He looked around, his eyes passing over Gascon and landing on the small windmill, which had already taken up a rather respectable speed in the short time since its initiation upon the cliff side. "You can leave for today, can't you?"

Reese heaved his shoulders in a shrug. "I'm sure Jameson will understand." He turned back to Gascon. "Tell 'im that somethin' important came up. I'll return tomorrow." Without waiting for an answer, the two older boys exchanged nods and left in the same jog by which Connor had arrived.

Gascon finished his lunch, but he did not return to work. Rather, he took to wandering Lari's streets, hands in the pockets of the new coat he had bought with his recent earnings. Ironically, it was far plainer than his old one, but that had been the whole point of purchasing it.

It was early afternoon when he neared Katrine's house, well aware that the details of today's events were probably none of his business. Neither, he supposed, was the reason for Reese's inclusion in it, though he had to admit, that was what concerned him most. She had never said anything about _two_ brothers.

He stopped at the corner of the butcher shop situated just down the street. They were talking outside her door, Reese and her, though he could not pick out their words from this distance. Gascon's heart began to pound just a little harder when he noted the manner in which Reese was attempting to put his arms around her, his efforts hindered by the angle at which she was leaning away.

At last, Reese turned and left. Realizing he intended to pass by this way, Gascon ducked behind a nearby barrel before he could be spotted and thanked the stars she was still outside by the time he could safely come out of hiding. Her hand was already upon the doorknob as he approached her, but she removed it once she took notice of his footfalls.

Katrine's face, slack in empty expression and a profound weariness, as if she hadn't slept for many nights, perked up the smallest degree at the acknowledgement of his presence. "Yeah, Gascon, what is it?" Her voice was soft, even now that he had largely closed the distance between them.

"I came because," he adjusted his weight from one foot to the other, "well, I heard…is your mother all right?"

"Yes, yes, she's fine. 'Twas just a little scare, that's all. More of a…false alarm than anythin', really…" She rubbed one finger beside her eye.

"I-I see." He fell back into silence, pressing his lips together and blinking a bit more than was necessary as he waited for her to go on.

"She's just…she's been ill a while now, ya see. Has scarcely gotten outta bed since…what happened to Father. I guess she never…" She took a deep breath. "I've had to take care of the house, and her, for the last few years now, and…" She released a humorless laugh. "Any little thin' out of the ordinary scares me. But she's fine now. Thanks for askin', Gascon."

"It's no problem." Scratching his head, he retreated a pace. "O-okay. Well, I'll-"

They both jumped when the door opened and Katrine's brother stepped out. He stiffened when he noticed Gascon.

"What are you doin' here?" Connor asked, his voice flat.

Gascon's jaw worked for an answer, and though his reasoning for being here was simple, his response seemed so much more difficult than it should have been. "I was only-"

"He came to see how we were doin'," Katrine said. "Isn't that thoughtful of him, Connor?"

Her words had no effect in softening her brother's gaze. If anything, it only sharpened further. "Our personal affairs are none of your concern. Who told you they were?" His eyes flickered to his sister for the shortest of moments. "Come inside."

"Connor…"

"Listen," Gascon began, "I don't need anyone's permission to talk to your sister."

"Get back in. Now." Connor grabbed her by the arm. Though she attempted to pull it from his grip, Katrine made no further efforts at resistance as he tugged her inside. Before Gascon could get another word in, Connor slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Keeping with the seagull theme, Reese's name comes from the word Rissa, the genus of the kittiwake, a type of seagull. Anyway, please review, dear readers; it is much appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10: Womanly Wiles

Another chapter is here! I particularly liked the interactions between Gascon and Katrine. I hope you guys do, too.

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Womanly Wiles**

It sometimes seemed to Gascon that the lengths some guys were willing to go for a girl were rather ridiculous. He had no problem helping a lady out every now and then or complimenting her on her dress, but slaying a dragon or enduring trials of wit and strength at the risk of one's own life was asking just a bit too much for his liking. Of course, based on such extreme examples, it was clear he had not had much experience in that department during his years as a prince.

What he knew about chivalry and the male-female relationships came from books he had read on long afternoons when he hadn't the will to attend to his studies or from conversations he overheard whilst eavesdropping on unsuspecting servants or soldiers. One man had shaved off his mustache for a girl. Whatever facial hair Gascon ended up with one day, he didn't plan on doing anything to it that wasn't his own idea. It was his face, after all, and the way he saw it, it was his last remaining asset now that he no longer had wealth and a lofty title to stand him out from the crowd. He wasn't the worst looking guy around, he could say that much.

Nevertheless, despite these beliefs and the fruitless, but fervent, verbal battles he would often have with himself over the absurdities of fiction in a book incapable of arguing back with him, it looked as if he might very well have fallen into the same trap as all those lords and knights before him. Lately, it had begun to feel as if every time he visited Katrine, they would end up doing chores together. _Her_ chores. Hold this, sweep that, pull out my splinter, and do it right, will you? Today, she needed medicine for her ailing mother, but instead of buying it like any sane person, she intended to make it. It was cheaper that way, and in monetary value, he supposed he'd take her word for it. Based on the risk it posed to one's own personal safety, however, he had to say it was not the better option.

The final ingredient was a type of red lichen that made its home on the moist surface of rocks battered by the sea. And he had begun to suspect with deflating spirits that _he_ would be the one assigned to the task of gathering it. She didn't say it in so many words, but her smile told him everything, until she inevitably pointed out the best rock to begin his search. It was, to his increased dismay, not attached to land in any way, but was rather like a tiny black island jutting out of the sea twenty feet from shore.

He had to wonder if she had simply planned this to get him shirtless. Just in case, he kept it on. That would teach her to trick _him_.

Gascon arrived on the rock weighing roughly twice what he had originally from the sheer amount of water his clothing had soaked up. His own plan to stay fully clothed for a dip in the sea had backfired on him, it would appear, but at least he could count on the sun's warmth to dry him as he worked. Heck, he might very well remain out here all afternoon to sunbathe while he was at it. He could use a tan. All that time spent beneath Hamelin's bronze canopy had made him the palest person in Lari.

What he had apparently failed to take into account was the constant crashing of the waves upon this lonely spire, not to mention the sheer distance spray could travel when it was so inclined. Most of the lichen could be found on the rock's sides, forcing him to spend the majority of his time where the water struck most, but even a short retreat to the island's center did not offer the reprieve from the cold sea he had hoped for.

The teen spent nearly a half hour scraping lichen off the sides of the rock with his fingernails before returning to shore, shivering and thoroughly soaked to his bones and deeper. Spluttering water from his face, he produced the jar containing the mass of lichen he had accumulated, only to freeze when he caught sight of something undeniably suspicious. Blinking salty water from his eyes one last time, his vision focused just enough to confirm that the small basket Katrine was sitting beside was already full to the brim with the red, flaky fungus.

His eyes narrowed. "What's this?"

Her head ducked in the motion of one swallowing their own amusement. "Oh, well," her attention darted for a moment to the basket beside her, as if it was but an afterthought, "the stuff way out on that rock is better quality, an'-"

"I don't see why that would be."

Katrine smiled and held out a hand. "I'll take that, please." As ill-inclined as he may have been to give in after her trickery, he handed over the results of his labor when careful consideration could uncover no good reasons for the unpleasant substance to remain in his possession. Once the jar had been safely tucked away in her basket, along with the rest of her supposedly "inferior" supply, she patted the grass on the side of her that was currently unoccupied. "Sit with me, won'cha? You look positively tuckered."

This acknowledgement of his own state only served to sour his expression further, but he obeyed, nonetheless, by plopping down next to her with an unavoidable squish. He nearly allowed another shiver to wrack his frame, but managed to subdue it.

"I can't work with this stuff 'til it dries, so I guess that means…we have some time to talk."

"That's the very reason I came to see you. And then you made me do this."

She laughed. "Get used to bein' wet. We're always wet in Lari. As proof, it looks like we're gonna get a storm soon."

As if to confirm her words, he turned to eye the thick grey clouds rolling in over the water with increasing dismay. That was the way of seaside weather. It had been a clear day just a half hour ago. "Shouldn't we head inside?"

"Nah." She folded her hands in her lap. "'Tis always the coolest just before the rain starts. We have to enjoy it while it lasts."

He brushed his hair from his eyes when a sudden breeze blew against his face. " _Do_ we?"

"Yes! If you're gonna live in our town, then ya hafta learn how things work."

"Well, in that case…" he fell backwards into the cool grass and tucked his hands beneath his head, "I guess I better get started conforming. Might as well dry off before the rain comes."

Katrine turned to look back at him. "You really are soaked, Gascon."

"And I have you to thank. But I suppose it's worth it for the sake of better quality…whatever that stuff is." His eyes locked onto hers, and she looked away.

Brushing a few of her curls behind one ear, she asked, "Where are ya from, Gascon? I don't think I ever asked."

He was silent for a moment as he thought this over. "Castaway Cove." It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Your father wasn't able to catch enough fish there?"

He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Huh? Oh, no."

"I guess fishin' never really suited ya, then? I mean, otherwise I'd assume ya'd take on the family business. My brother tried to, but…well, with what happened to Father, Mother forbid him."

"Oh." Family business, huh? He had tried to carry on the family business, but had been told in nearly so many words that he wasn't good enough.

"Can we see your father's fishin' boat from here?" Katrine asked, her attention directed out across the choppy, grey water and the dozen or so small boats bobbing in the distance. They looked hardly bigger than the miniature sailing boat Gascon used to have for bath time when he was little.

"No, uh…he's probably too far out now," Gascon said. "I…I don't think I'd make a very good fisherman. I'm better with…mechanical things, I suppose. At least, I've fixed up a few things for Jameson anyway." He sighed at the encroaching clouds above, which had already begun to advance beyond the shoreline. "That's all I can really do."

"That's good. That's very important, actually. It's better than becomin' a pirate anyway." She turned to him and winked. "Now, _me_ , on the other hand…"

"Oh, sure, you'd make an excellent pirate. One smile would be enough to get men the world round to hand over their loot. Look what you can get _me_ to do."

She gave him a smack on the arm. "You love it, an' you know it."

He sat up straighter to better defend himself in case of further assault. "I'm sure I'll also love staying in bed tomorrow with the flu. Then at least I won't be expected to lift a finger. I only hope that'll inspire you to make _me_ some medicine."

She swatted at him again. "A little water never hurt anyone."

"You ever heard of drowning?" He released a long breath of anticipation. "Yes, I think some hot chicken noodle soup will be the best way to ease your regret. Should I leave you to fetch the ingredients?"

She attempted to trick him by switching hands, but he blocked neatly. "Since I'm such a harsh an' cruel master, surely ya must know I'd make _you_ gather the supplies."

"I'd hardly recognize you if you didn't."

Katrine ceased her attack, a grin still present on her face that counteracted any other attempt to appear stern. "You can really be a jerk sometimes, Gascon."

"I know."

"Didja really hate collectin' lichen for me that much?"

"Yes. But you're the only one I'd do it for. Does that make you feel any better?"

"It does."

The deep growl of thunder was the first sign the promised rain had arrived, a rumble so low, it was enough to rattle their very bones. The second was the curtain of rain that followed. When he had originally noticed the impending storm, Gascon had figured he couldn't get any wetter. He could, however, get a lot colder.

"Now we're even," he said, staring back at her and the previously long curls now flattened against her head like a wet towel.

"Do ya wanna keep bein' sassy or do ya wanna find shelter?" she said.

"I can do this as long as you can."

Rolling her eyes, Katrine grabbed her basket in one hand and began tugging on his arm with the other. They headed back to town in a careful jog through the muddying grass, though the potholed streets of town weren't faring much better with the downpour. Many of the puddles were already deep enough to go over the tops of his shoes. He now understood why she wore boots.

It was the awning in front of Lari's local bakery that offered the shelter they sought. While they could not prevent the rain from splashing onto their legs, at least here their heads were protected, and the warm, sweet smell of freshly-baked bread almost made him forget how cold he was. His stomach growled at the delicious aroma, but he could do no more than crave what the shop offered. He was becoming quite familiar with what it was like not to be able to afford what you wanted.

Gascon began to wring moisture from his clothes with quivering hands. All the while, Katrine remained frozen at his side, staring at the rain as if in a trance. She seemed wholly unaware of the puddle forming at her feet from the rainwater dripping from her dress.

"Reese never helps me with anythin'," she said at last. "He always says," she lowered her voice in a failed attempt to mimic the older boy's far deeper one, "'I have my own work' or 'I wanna relax when I'm off' or…or 'no one helps me do _my_ job'. He won't do anythin' I ask of him, even little things."

Gascon stared at her. "Wh-what's all this about?"

She shook her head, sending flecks of water in various directions. "Oh, it's…it's nothin', really. Just silly stuff."

He tore his gaze away once he realized just how much he was gaping at her. When she failed to elaborate further, he asked, "So, this Reese fellow…is he your…cousin or something?"

"Reese…?" she repeated, her eyes glazed with far off thoughts before they focused again. "Oh, no, he's…" she paused, "he's just a friend o' the family. That's all."

"Oh."

She kicked one foot against the cobblestoned street, her fingers lacing together at her waist. "It's just that…we've known him for a long time, ya see, an'…he's mainly friends with my brother, so he's around a lot. Probably…probably to get away from his own home. Oldest o' six. I suspect it must be hard to get noticed in a house like that, the big, silent oaf." She attempted to laugh, but it came out hollow. "When…when there's another boy around, I just ask him sometimes to help with a few chores I have trouble doin' on my own. He just…never helps me. That's all I was sayin'."

"I don't _really_ mind helping you with stuff," Gascon said. "I was only joking."

She nodded, though her eyes remained on the ground at her feet. "Yeah."

When she said no more, he leaned against the large shop window behind him, finding no other means of waiting out the storm than to resume his earlier vigil over the downpour. Thunder continued to rumble overhead, though scarcely could it be heard over the strength of the rain hammering against the rooftops and the awning above them. He didn't quite like weather nearly as much as he thought he would. He just hoped it didn't snow here.

He went stiff when something warm touched his cheek. Even once it had left him, he didn't immediately look over, but remained frozen to the spot as if under a spell. He would have been too slow anyway, for by now, Katrine was already darting off into the rain. She looked back just once, but it was enough to tell she had been blushing.

* * *

One advantage of being a prince, Gascon had learned, was that one was never made to endure aches and stiffness beyond any reasonable means. If anything needed lifting or any other sort of shift in its position, there were servants for that. Stairs need not be climbed when the object of one's desire could be fetched for them. Even dressing oneself was often done with assistance, or it would be, if Gascon didn't so often leave his chambers at times he wasn't meant to.

Pain in life was natural and to be expected, but royalty got to avoid most of it. But he wasn't royalty anymore, and that was enough to signify that all physical labor now fall to him. His complaints stemmed largely from his new job, where his position of authority, minor though it was, did not always exempt him from hard work as Jameson had originally stated. Ever since he had found steady employment, he had begun to retire to bed each night stiff and sore, with morning feeling like it came earlier and earlier. And then it would all begin again, like a recurring dream where the effects did not wear off with consciousness.

A mere month was enough to make him feel like an old man as he hobbled down the stairs of the Cat's Cradle one morning, more akin to a walking corpse than anything else. He had read stories about the shambling members of the undead who were said to roam the Tombstone Trail several miles northwest of Hamelin, and he had even witnessed such horrors firsthand shortly before his voyage to Lari. Real as they seemed, he had a theory that they were merely tired people worn out from too much work. Soon enough, he'd become one, too. He was sure of it.

When the teen clomped outside and squinted in the bright morning light, he caught sight of an arm sticking out from behind one of the tall, potted bushes flanking the inn entrance. Gascon glared at it for a moment, his mind still working its way towards full alertness, as not all of him had woken up at the same time. Advancing another couple paces proved sufficient to bring into full view the form of Reese, as stocky and unpleasant as ever. It was too early for this. He really should have another fifteen minutes. At least.

The older boy drew back further between the bush and the wall, as if he honestly believed it was not already too late for him. When they continued to maintain eye contact, he stepped out into the open and attempted to straighten his shirt with a single downward tug. He failed to knock the leaf free.

"Gascon, you're up." Reese cleared his throat. "Now that we're comrades, I thought I'd better…walk ya t' work."

The younger boy grunted, scratching his head. "Right…"

When Gascon proceeded to yawn, but budged not an inch from that spot, Reese went on, "Let's go then."

"I can make it there just fine by myself. You've never decided to…escort me before." Gascon's drooping eyelids half covered a gaze that had since sharpened into keen alertness. "Why are you _really_ here?"

Reese appeared to stiffen, like prey realizing it had just been spotted by the hunter. Placing his hands into the pockets of his old, worn coat, he took to scanning the rooftops. "Ya've been spendin' time with Katrine," he began, addressing an arbitrary second story window of the inn where his attention had landed. "An'…an' I ain't gonna put up with you lyin' to 'er anymore."

Gascon's eyes widened at this sudden accusation. "And _what_ have I lied to her about?"

The older boy glanced his way, only to return his attention skyward a second later. "She told me what ya've said. About movin' 'ere with your father. Where _is_ your father? He doesn't live at the inn with ya, does 'e? I don't want 'er spendin' time with a runaway. 'Tisn't decent. She's a decent girl, Kat, an'…"

Gascon held up a hand before Reese could say any more. "You have a lot of nerve accusing me of things you know nothing about. What makes you assume I was lying to her?"

At last, their eyes locked, as if his accuser had just begun to rethink the wisdom of disregarding the one he had angered. "You came outta the inn. Explain that."

"I'm a human with legs. I'll do it again if you want me to."

"But…but you leave there every mornin' and return there every night." By now, Reese's voice had begun to grow weaker with every word.

"I run errands for the innkeeper in my spare time. It helps my father and I pay the bills. Do you want me to write my entire schedule down for you? It'll make stalking me a bit easier."

At this, Reese said nothing, but rather, resumed the usual silence he was far better known for. Gascon was just about to dismiss the conversation as over and retreat in the opposite direction when the older boy bowed his head in a stiff bob. "I'm sorry to've wasted you're time." Without another word, he turned and lumbered away.

* * *

Reese's personality has been greatly changed since my earlier drafts of this story. Before, he was more rude and brutish, but it made his character feel kind of cliche. The only downside to changing him is the fact that I had to remove a few funny lines on Gascon's part, but alas. It had to be done.

Please review, my dear readers!


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